


Restart (An Original Novella)

by mvsicbookfrxndom



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Car Accidents, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Love, My First AO3 Post, Teen Romance, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvsicbookfrxndom/pseuds/mvsicbookfrxndom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the universe loses gravity?</p><p>Stephanie doesn't have a care in the world. Her parents love her to the edges of the earth, her younger sister illuminates any darkness with her luminous personality, and her best friend is loyal through thick and thin. She has no reason to anticipate anything will ever change.</p><p>But her seemingly perfect world shatters when a tragedy strikes. Will she be able to fight the shadows that threaten to ruin her, or will she fall through the cracks? Stephanie must learn to restart her entire life, and her outlook on life, while everyone else is fast forwarding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thank You, Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Reading my book? Thank you so very much for that! I really appreciate it, more than you could ever know.
> 
> Before you start, there are some things you should be aware of.
> 
> The first is that this is my 2014-2015 NaNoWriMo entry and has been published, which is very exciting! And something I am proud of to put out as content on AO3. :)
> 
> The second is that this is the very first original work (read: non-fanfiction) I ever wrote in my entire life. This labor of love was born right when I turned 12 - yes, 12 - so please don't judge it too harshly. I was also kind of rushing throughout that crazy month of November of 2014, and couldn't precisely finish what I'd set out to write. Also, I was an immature and cliché baby at that age. Not that all other preteens are, but I sure was.
> 
> The third is that this is the first book of the Rewrite trilogy. I don't know when the rest will be written, because I'm kind of at a writer's block. If I get enough motivation to finish, rest assured that I will!
> 
> The fourth is that the chapter titles reference the names of music albums. I wonder how many you'll recognize!
> 
> The fifth is that this story is not beta-d, so please point out any mistakes that I've missed within this novella. Other than that, I'll publish this sans any notes and let my fetus, pre-teen writing speak for itself.
> 
> Please enjoy, and leave any sort of feedback in the comments!!! <3

_**Monday, February 29** **th** **, 2016** _

“Happy birthday, Steph!”

My younger sister, Maria, shrieks as she jumps on my bed, crushing my legs. I yawn before sitting up.

“Wait. My birthday? Oh, yeah, my birthday…” My voice is a low, raspy grumble, and I cough.

“Yeah, your birthday! Get up, slowpoke! I have a present for you!”

“Okay, umm. Get off my bed so I can get out of it!” I grunt.

Maria obliges, giggling, as she leaps onto the ivory colored rug on the floor.

“Why didn’t Mom get me one of these?” she asks me as she curls her toes into the soft rug.

“I don’t know, actually. I think she said it was an early birthday present." My voice stretches with me while I unfold my arms and look at the clock on the counter next to my bed. “5:24?” I whine. I’m not a morning person.

“It isn’t _that_ early,” Maria retorts defensively.

“Yes, it is." I moan and climb out of my bed. The cold air of our house washes over me, chilling me to the bone. I instinctively start to crawl back into the inviting warmth of my green sheets, but I restrain myself. “Now, where’s this present you’re so excited about?”

Her brown eyes sparkling, she dashes out of my room and down the steep stairs to the living room.

“Maria!" I reprimand her as I chase her down the hallway. I stumble, my legs still used to my bed, not running, so early in the morning.

“Hurry up!” Maria calls back.

I finally reach our bright kitchen. It’s a nice room, the pale yellow light bulbs illuminating the room and giving the dark brown chairs a glow. It’s so neat in here. I guess the fact hits me especially right now because even if I am very organized, my bedroom can be sloppy sometimes.

I turn to the calendar on the wall. This year is a leap year, so my real birthday is actually going to occur (yes, I was born on Leap Day). I get distracted and, lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice Maria waving her hand in front of my face.

“Hello? Anybody home? Earth to Steph! Steph?”

“Oh. Sorry. Just thinking…”

“Well, think after you’ve seen Michael’s gift!”

“Wait. You said it was _your_ gift?" I look at her.

“Fine. I was fibbing. Now come and see already!”

Maria grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room.

“Look!” she shouts, pointing at the carpet.

Sitting there, the sunrise casting rainbow colors on its amber shaded wood, is an acoustic guitar.

For a second, I seriously think my eyes are playing tricks on me. I look at Maria, who’s staring back at me expectantly.

“Oh my gosh,” I manage.

“Michael got it for you!” Maria squeals.

“Oh my gosh,” I repeat like an idiot.

“Michael got it for you!” Maria squeals again, mocking me.

“Michael got it for me?!"

“Of course! He _loves_ you!”

I roll my eyes. “No, he does not.” I swallow the rising lump in my throat and run over to the guitar, kneeling over it like it’s a living, breathing creature. Placed over the frets is a pale green ribbon, tied in the shape of a bow. There’s a note under it written in marker:

 

**Play your heart away — Michael**

 

“I knew you’d like it!” Maria cries triumphantly.

“I can’t believe he did this for me!" I’m so giddy, my hands are shaking as I finger the strings of my guitar. _My_ guitar. _My guitar!_

I cradle the guitar like it’s a baby and test strum. It vibrates in my hands, letting out a beautiful, sweet sound, and I beam.

“Why does it sound weird like that?” Maria asks, making a face. Maybe it isn’t as beautiful or sweet as I imagine it.

“It needs to be tuned. I’ll take care of that after school. Then it’ll sound awesome." If I learn some chords.

But for now, it’s perfect.

Mom comes down from upstairs and jokes I woke her up. She goes in the kitchen to make a special breakfast for me while get ready for school.

I go to my bedroom and pull a simple green t-shirt and jeans out of my dresser. My “style” (even though I don’t have one) is casual, not fancy. And concealing of course. No crop tops or insanely revealing shorts in my wardrobe. That’s definitely not me. Looking at myself in the mirror, I carelessly brush my hair, making sure my long, long bangs fall in front of my face. I’m shy, although very opinionated, and I don’t want to stand out in the mass of the public high school I go to. Hiding behind my hair is the easiest way to survive. I don’t care about my appearance the way some girls at school do, and I don’t wear makeup or anything, so I only spend about thirty seconds each morning in front of the mirror. In my opinion, any more than that would be narcissistic, unless it’s necessary.

As soon as I’m ready, I rush down the stairs to be greeted by the smell of something baking — something with strawberries. Mom tells me to wait a second while she prepares my meal. With extra time to kill, I go to my guitar to teach myself some chords. Michael will be impressed with my skills when I ~~force~~ _invite_ him to come over after school. The tuning doesn’t take long, and I am done soon before Mom calls for me.

When I walk into our unattractively orange kitchen (which would have been painted mint green if it were up to me), I am greeted by two beaming faces and a delicious breakfast — strawberry pancakes, an omelette, and chocolate-covered strawberries.

“Wow!” I exclaim. My eyes widen. So much strawberry and chocolate! My two favorite foods!

Mom sits me down and gives me her gift, encased in a tiny velvet box — a jewelry set. The necklace, bracelet, and earrings all have green gems. “ _Concuerdan con tus ojos,_ ” she tells me in Spanish, her primary language. I understand it because since she’s from Spain, she uses it in the house, although I can't really speak it that well.

I put on the jewelry and smile as Mom takes a picture. I decide to leave it on just for today, convincing myself there’s no harm in being flashy just for one day. Maria gives me a box wrapped in light green paper. I unwrap the box to be greeted by a high-tech watch. It’s equipped with a glow-in-the-dark light, which I appreciate. I love glow-in-the-dark things (my fear of the dark has never really gone away). It also has a timer, the day and date, and of course, it’ll be useful to check the time when there isn’t a clock available. I slip it on and smile.

“This is great! Thank you so much, guys!" I sit at the table and dig in so fast it’s like someone will chase me away.

* * *

I head to my locker, speedwalking to make sure I won’t be late for homeroom with Miss Catella, when I feel a hand on my shoulder, fingering my necklace. I slowly turn around and see the familiar wavy golden hair and glinting olive green eyes of my best friend. I abruptly stop myself and greet him necessarily.

“Michael!” I practically shout. For a second, self-consciousness rushes through me. But then I think, _Do I really care?_ and just hug him as tightly as I can.

He feels stiff at first, and I assume he doesn’t expect me doing this. He relaxes and wraps his arms around me after only a second. His heartbeat feels fast, and his fingers tap on my back. I’m not surprised about this. With his hyperactivity, he’s always moving. Always. Polar opposite of me, who can sit completely still for hours at a time.

“Hi! I wonder why you’re _especially_ happy to see me this glorious morning,” he chirps in a silly high voice. “Oh yeah, and happy birthday. You’ve finally turned four years old!”

I giggle. He makes me laugh all the time, but especially today. Especially now. I’m so happy to see him, I’m almost bursting. “Oh, Michael, thank you so much,” I manage, squeezing him harder in our hug.

He automatically knows what I’m talking about, of course. “Hey, no problemo. You totally needed one in your life. You’ll do amazing things with that guitar, I know you will.”

“You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“You’re awesome. You definitely deserve it.”

“It must have cost a fortune.”

“It was worth seeing your face.”

“Wait, what?" I finally pull away from him.

“Maria stole your phone, hid it, turned on your Skype app, and I saw everything." I’m surprised he’s willing to betray this information so easily, but I try to hide it. Instead, I fix him with a glare.

“I’m going to _kill_ her!" The threat is wimpy because I’m shaking with laughter. I attempt remembering if I said anything embarrassing when I saw the guitar. Now that I think about it, _everything_ I said when I saw the guitar was embarrassing. That’s not good. It’s just adding fuel to the fire of Michael’s ‘humor.’

He grins, his eyes sparking. A dimple appears in his cheek. “Maria’s sneaky. Also, I have a lot of _connections_." At that, he winks at me.

Suddenly remembering the time, I look at my new watch.

“Oh, no! It’s 7:56!”

Homeroom starts promptly at eight.

“You better hurry,” Michael jokes, grinning. Most of the time, his grins are endearing, but now it’s slightly irritating. I don’t like to be late.

“You held me up,” I point out.

“You didn’t need to thank me for the guitar right before homeroom.”

“Oh, Michael. I’ll owe you for eternity.”

“Sweet! Let’s start with a—”

“Michael, stop distracting poor Stephanie! Shouldn’t you get going to your classes?”

That would be Mrs. B., the Language Arts teacher. The reason we call her by the first letter of her last name is because it is too hard to pronounce. Honestly, I don’t even know what it exactly is. She’s a spectacular teacher, which makes her class enjoyable.

“Well, yeah, then, bye,” Michael says. And with that, he ducks in between the rush of kids desperate to get to their classes on time, and disappears. For a few seconds, Mrs. B. and I stare after his receding head, and then I turn to the teacher apologetically.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. B., for me _and_ for Michael. I’ll make sure to get to class on time.”

“That’s fine. At least you apologized,” she mentions with an impassive smile, glancing down the hallway where Michael left. “Here. I’ll write you a pass saying you were asking me about the homework I assigned last night." She leads me into her cozy, postery classroom, where most of her students are sitting, alert, waiting for her instructions.

“Check your binders and turn in your essay,” Mrs. B. announces. The class immediately erupts into a cacophony of papers rustling, chairs screeching as they are dragged across the floor, and sneaker thumps as the students’ pairs of Converse slap the ground. As I scan the class, I quickly drop my essay in the bin.

This place is so _social_ , much louder than Miss Catella’s class, which is admittedly run like a military base — cold, depressing silence; long, sad faces sitting utterly quiet at their desks; the teacher’s sharp ice blue eyes seeming to watch your every move. People literally tiptoe to put their homework on her desk. I was amazed on the first day of school at how _bare_ my assigned homeroom walls were, and how dull the color. Who paints high school walls _gray_? That’s asking for a snoozefest during our American History lessons.

Mrs. B. leads me to her office, which is even more cluttered and homey than the room. Every wall either has a mural or is painted in a shade of blue. Totally my kind of place.

“Here you go, Stephanie,” she says, signing the pass.

“Thank you,” I say, gratefully taking the pass. However, after hanging out in this room, I am more than reluctant to have to leave and instead spend time at my military base of a classroom. While I’m walking out of the art room, the loudspeaker turns on and Mr. Benson, the principal, orates his morning ritual: “Please stand for a time of silent reflection followed by the Pledge of Allegiance.”

 _Oh, no!_ My punctual mind panics for a second, before I remember the now crushed slip of paper in my hand. Silently calming myself down, I put my right hand over my heart and think about nothingness for an ineffectual fifteen seconds. After this is the pledge.

This class shouts the pledge, loud and proud, as if they want the whole world to hear how amazing their country is and how happy they are to live here. My class whispers the pledge softly, as if they think they’d get in trouble for speaking. Everything about this class is exactly the opposite of mine. I’ve got to admit, I’m jealous. I shouldn’t have come here. This isn’t healthy, this feeling of envy.

Even though its color is green, which is my favorite.

I don’t want to be the kind of person who wishes they had what others have. I’m lucky to even have an education, not to mention the privilege of having one at this school.

Then the announcements start. First is the student council: “The President, Vice President, Treasurer, and Secretary of the Student Council are proud to disclose the date of our much anticipated Spring Fling!”

The class chatters excitedly for a second before quickly hushing themselves up to hear more.

“The date is…May twenty-fourth!” the Council representatives shout excitedly.

“May twenty-fourth?!”

“Are they kidding?”

“That’s basically the end of the year!”

“I don’t wanna wait that long to dance with a girl that isn’t my sister!”

The class is really angry at the date of the Spring Fling, but of course, high school students find something to get mad about all the time. Guess the Student Council’s _Exciting Announcement!_ backfired.

“Be quiet!” Mrs. B. shouts over the commotion. “We need to hear what else is going on in the school!”

The class duly obeys, and we hear, “…by March fourteenth." I make an effort not to roll my eyes. The announcement could’ve been for one of the extracurricular clubs or sports I take a part in. Now I won’t know what it was for, just because of a _prom_.

Mr. Benson comes back on and says, as he does every morning, “Let’s make this a great day!”

Now that the announcements are over, I can skedaddle. As soon as I approach the door, the students in the art room wave and wish me a warm farewell. Most people shout, “Happy birthday!” as I leave. I stick my head back into the door and thank them with a big smile, even knowing this must’ve been because of Michael. I’m not popular, and most of these kids don’t even know me, but they’re friends of his.

Rushing through the hallways, I quickly get to my locker, unlock it, grab my stuff from my backpack, throw the backpack in, and burst into Miss Catella’s room. The petrified class stares at me, wide eyed and surprised. The teacher glares at me with a look that reads, _If you’re going to come into my class late, you might as well not have come at all. How dare you!_ I almost laugh out loud before remembering why that wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Miss Hawthorne, why were you late today when you are always, I mean _usually_ , on time?” she asks coldly. Even though I have a good excuse and a pass, I still gulp. _What if the pass isn’t good enough for her?_ one half of me thinks. _Oh, come on!_ the other half of me shouts back. _She can call Mrs. B. if she wants. You’re right and you know it._

“I-I was at the LA room,” I stutter. “I had some questions about our essay." I give her the pass.

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“If I make a phone call to her classroom right now, will she tell me what you’ve told me?”

“Yes,” I answer, and feeling it necessary, I add, “Ma’am.”

“Don’t sass me!” Miss Catella shouts. I blush in embarrassment and look at the floor. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being yelled at by a teacher who doesn’t trust me in front of the whole class. Humiliation is a very squirmy-jumpy type of feeling. _No wonder she isn’t married,_ I think as she irately yanks the phone off the wall, jabs the buttons, and puts it up to her ear. The class is so quiet, I can hear the ring as the phone line tries to connect.

“Hello?” *long pause* “Why, yes. I was just wondering if you had seen Stephanie Hawthorne this morning. She claims to have visited your room to ask about the essay you had assigned.” *long pause* “Oh, really? Alright. Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted the delightfully educational experience your students must be in the middle of." (Yes, she seriously talks like that. It’s unthinkable. Sometimes it isn’t even grammatically accurate! Everyone knows you’re not supposed to put ‘of’ at the end of a sentence. Are you kidding me?)

After she hangs up, she turns to me. “Well, you were telling the truth. However, this type of behavior is unacceptable. I don’t care if you’re asking about homework, even though it’s your birthday." How does she know that? I didn’t know teachers bothered to pay attention to gossip.

“You have to get to class on time. Do you understand me? Why is your hair covering your face like that? You look like a vagabond!”

The bell rings, but no one moves. _This is about to get interesting._

“Yes,” I mutter, answering the first question asked of me, even if it isn’t relevant anymore. I push my bangs over my head, combing my fingers through my hair. Although it falls back into its previous position, the teacher either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Tardiness is uncalled for in a student like you. I would _expect_ you to be different from the unappreciating imbeciles that occupy my classroom each day.” This cuts so deep. I hold myself higher than most kids at this school. I get exceptional grades and am in all the AP classes, and I have perfect behavior, but most of all, I’ve earned the _respect_ of the teachers because of this.

Now I’m wondering, _How are my teacher’s first period students going to learn American History? Will she let them in?_ As a matter of fact, I can hear the students arriving at the door, shouting and being unnecessarily loud, as usual.

Miss Catella glares at the door. Under no circumstances can she tolerate noisy students, even while lecturing an undisciplined student.

“If you move one step, you will be receiving a _referral_." A referral is another word for a trip to the principal’s office.

_Don’t worry, Miss Catella. I’m not going anywhere._

With the extra time to think, I force my thoughts back to the discussion with my angry teacher, dimly hearing her yelling at the students outside to act like scholars attending an education-providing institute instead of untamed varmints residing at the zoo.

Why, oh _why_ , is she making such a big deal out of this? It’s my first time being anything but early to this class, and I should actually be given just a simple warning and freedom. Now not only will I inevitably be in trouble with Miss Catella, I’ll be late for _my_ first period as well! This is just unbelievable.

I find myself wishing my birthday wasn’t on a Monday. It would be so much easier to just relax over the weekend than having to deal with this.

When she’s done scolding the students outside, she comes back and spears me with a glare.

“I will never be late again,” I confirm forcefully and surely, praying silently this is what she wants to hear.

“GOOD. Now, your EXTRA HOMEWORK will be an essay — of sorts." Her eyes glitter. “We shall do this ‘old school,’ as you modern insolents conjecture." I hold my breath to keep from snickering, in spite of my fear. “Since you can easily divulge that you will never be late again, you can just as easily write it — one hundred times. Due tomorrow, no questions asked.”

“Okay.”

“In cursive.”

“Okay.”

“Immaculate handwriting.”

“Okay.”

“No mistakes.”

“Okay.”

“Computer paper.”

“Okay.”

“Not lined or notebook.”

“Okay.”

“Perfectly straight.”

“Okay.”

“No diagonal veering.”

“Okay.”

“Are you actually listening to what I’m saying, or just repeating the same word over and over again to spite me?”

“The former.”

“Alright.” She seems fazed by the fact that I don’t complain or object, but brushes it off. “Come in!” she calls to the impatient students outside the classroom. “What on _earth_ are you waiting for?”

Then she turns to me. “And _you_ ,” she says, spitting out the word as if it’s a piece of rotten fruit, “Get to your next class, _now_. I’m not giving you a pass, and I don’t care if you get in trouble for being late, because it’s _your_ responsibility to get to class on time." Her eyes sparkle, as if she’s just told a joke. I am stoic, quickly gathering my things and leaving, my eyes locked on the floor as if the secrets of deciphering school are there.


	2. Melophobia

It’s lunch time, and as I go to get my lunch bag from my backpack, I see two familiar faces — Vanessa Rowan and Chloë Adams, the two meanest and prettiest girls in school. Eating at my bottom lip, I duck into another hallway to avoid them. I don’t want them to make my day worse than it already is. My birthday started out great, but it’s gone _way_ downhill from there. If I get tangled up in a fight with them, the results will be cataclysmic.

 _Pretty_ isn’t the right word to describe them, to be honest, or maybe it isn’t strong enough. They’re very beautiful, and they know it. It isn’t hard to see. Chloë, who is a sophomore like me, has long, golden hair that falls down her back in perfect waves, and her bangs are perfectly trimmed above her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her complexion is a perfect tan, without any blemishes or imperfections of any kind. Her cheekbones are soft are and at the perfect placement on her face. Her curves are obvious, and she’s perfectly slim, always wears makeup and bright pink lipstick on her full lips. She looks like a model, a completely stereotypical popular girl like there always are in books.

Like I said, what kind of cliché life do I have? It’s unbelievable!

What really bugs me about her, though, are her huge brown eyes. It’s like they have some magical power, so she can skillfully use them to persuade, usually the answers to exams or something. But she can also use them for greater evil, the most innocent of which being a disposable boyfriend here and there, or convincing a teacher to let her late assignment slide. She’s also arrogant. Really _arrogant_ , and it gets on my usually unshakable nerves.

Let me give you an example.

Since every pathetic boy in the school is positively _smitten_ with these _angels_ from _heaven_ , the two girls have complete control of this school. She’d be literally _the perfect_ cliché popular girl if she had blue eyes and was captain of the cheerleading team. Alas, she’s too lazy to exert any of her valuable energy doing something as pointless as sports, even a sport that would thrust her into a boiling pot of ~~prey~~ boys.

One kid was so bold to invite them to a party at his house, probably to woo one of them to become his girlfriend. I honestly think they would have went, since he was on the football team or something, but you know what turned them (well, Chloë) off? He forgot the diaeresis in her name! You know, the two dots over the E? And she got _so mad_ , she was screaming in his face at lunch, humiliating him in front of everyone, it was insane!

A tidbit?

“Omigod how did you forget the two dots over the, like, E in Chloë?! Is it not, like, CLEAR to you that there are dots?! If you’re going to invite me to your party, AT LEAST, like, SPELL MY NAME RIGHT! Omigod, you’re like a moron, omigod, and you’re actually, like, cute, and I would’ve, like, SO WENT, but NOW, HOW THE HECK CAN I, when you’ve, like, dis-ris-pek-ted me like this?! You know what I need right now? I need a watermelon strawberry lemonade with a kiwi fruit splash right now, those things are, like, so calming, and they’re kinda pink too, and pink is my favorite color. And you know what color YOU sent MY invitation in? PURPLE YOU MORON! And you gave VANESSA the pink one instead! This table — raise your hands if you knew pink was my favorite color? I thought so.”

So you can probably understand she’s a nutjob.

And then there’s Vanessa, a junior. Her hair is raven black, long, and permed in tight curls. Her eyes are the darkest of dark brown, giving you the feeling she knows all your secrets. Everything is dark and sharp about her, to be honest — skin, hair, eyes, cheekbones, jaw, personality. Even her mouth arches harshly to complement her full bottom lip.

What comes out of that perfect mouth, though, stabs like a sword. As soon as she utters a word, you know _exactly_ what kind of person she is. Her words are sparse (and sharp too), but they hit you where it hurts. Like a snake rearing its head to bite, with absolutely no mercy. When she walks into a room, she immediately attracts attention because she’s so stunning, but seems to have a cloud of depression following her wherever she goes. She looks mean, in general. She doesn’t care about me, but Chloë is the problem. Especially since the latter is jealous that I’ve skipped a grade and she hasn’t.

Quickly hurrying back to my locker, I solve my combination, grab my lunch bag, carefully close my locker so it doesn’t make a loud noise, and dash, wishing there was a huge crowd of kids to conceal me. How could everyone get to lunch so quickly and leave me behind?

Unfortunately, the two girls see me trying to flee from them, and they catch up to me before I can escape.

“I hope you had a jovial—”

“—birthday, Steph!”

Did I mention they finish each other’s sentences?

I’m vaguely surprised Vanessa even knows what jovial means.

“We heard about the issue—"

“—with Miss Catella. It was intense!”

“Hey, where’s Michael?” Vanessa asks suspiciously.

I try to ignore them and go to lunch, but they block the hallway.

“I said, where is he?” Vanessa repeats, as if I didn’t hear the first time.

“He’s usually hanging around you." Chloë, of course, is hungry for an unnecessary contribution to our pointless conversation.

“At lunch, probably." I consider barging into them and just crashing my way through them so I can get to the cafeteria.

“You want to have an excuse to leave instead of tell the truth, huh?" Vanessa’s cold dark eyes glitter. “Then you can go—”

“—without your lunch!" Chloë grabs my lunch bag and tosses it to Vanessa. Hilariously, she doesn’t catch it, and it skitters down the hallway.

This results in a…

…wait for it…

…GIRL FIGHT!

“Omigod, how did you not, like, catch that?!”

“You threw it the wrong way." Vanessa’s voice is low with growing rage, and Chloë immediately closes her gaping mouth. And opens it again.

“I know, right? I didn’t know I could throw like that!" [Please don’t lie to yourself to such an unfathomable extent, Chloë. It didn’t even reach the end of the hallway! That’s just sad.] Chloë tries to keep the interaction between her and her friend light and joking, but Vanessa doesn’t see it that way. She glares, and Chloë shuts it again.

“What if I broke a nail catching that? You’d owe me forever.” Wow. I thought even Vanessa wasn’t that shallow. Of course she is, though.

“I have, like, millions of packages of totally fake nails at my house!" I feel a sliver of pity for Chloë. It must be hard being the friend of a goddess like Vanessa.

Although I know how that feels.

“Could I come over after school to borrow some?" [Eww. Isn’t that the complete opposite of hygiene, sharing germs or something, like combing their hair with the same comb? Gross.]

“Sure!"

They start to babble over shades of nail polish and acrylic overlays [whatever that means] and what colors would complement their eyes [black for Vanessa and brown for Chloë, it’s as simple as that].

Seriously. If they paid as much attention to school as they do for their nail polish, they’d be geniuses.

Given an infinite amount of time to think, I ponder over whether I should wait until they remember my existence, or make a run for it and remind them of my existence way earlier than would be safe for me to continue existing.

Turns out, I wouldn’t need to make that choice.

As I stare down the hallway to my freedom, swallowed by Chloë‘s boasting about her summer vacation to Illinois, I see a face. It is the face of Mr. Brock, the painfully skinny, everworking, underappreciated janitor. The OCD scanners that are his eyes see something on the floor, and he bends down habitually, picking it up to keep this school as clean as his job requires.

He straightens up and holds out my lunch bag. “Is this anybody’s?” he asks.

“Mine!” I cry, running up to my lunch bag and gratefully retrieving it from him. Vanessa and Chloë are too stupefied to stop me.

“Wait. Who…umm, threw…this?”

“Chloë!” I tell him, at the same time Vanessa and Chloë blame me.

“Why would I throw my own lunch?” I ask them. They have no answer.

“Get to the cafeteria, all of you,” the janitor orders. I feel bad for him, since he probably doesn’t know any of the students here, and he must be confused.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Brock,” I say, and he smiles, surprised I know his name. I smile back. Thank goodness for janitors!

“Right down this way,” he adds, leading us there. I’m glad he’s here. Though he doesn’t know it, he’s my protection — for now. Vanessa and Chloë give me unmistakable looks of bloody revenge. Even though it dimly scares me, I decide to ignore the bad feeling. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

* * *

I’m walking home from school with Michael. I don’t tell him about my cruddy day, but I can tell he knows it wasn’t exactly the best by the looks he’s giving me.

“What do you want for your birthday?” he asks me.

“Are you kidding? You got me a guitar. A _guitar!_ You literally can’t give me a better gift if you tried.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Okay, Michael?”

“Okay…”

“Michael. I have a question for you. Why do you always think you’re not good enough? You’re super popular, everyone likes you, what could be better? Honestly, you don’t even need me.”

His unnecessary kindness somehow makes me angry. Why should he be nice to me? Why can’t the teachers be more considerate? Why does his opinion matter?

What am I saying? At the back of my mind, an alert turns on, but I don’t care. My mouth is still moving, spilling out my thoughts.

“Why do you hang out with me? I’m not cool, I’m not nice, I’m not especially pretty or anything, I’m not one of the many girls who have a crush on you! I’m not even in your grade! You could’ve gotten anyone to be friends with, and you picked a nobody girl — me! I feel like sometimes everyone in school is competing with me, vying for your attention, and in return, they treat me like…like…like garbage." I’m glad I don’t say the word they _really_ treat me like out loud, but still, I can’t believe I’ve ranted like that.

I don’t know why I feel naturally disagreeable right now. I’m not sure if it’s only me, but I’ve noticed Michael’s been acting different these days. Every passing moment seems fleeting between us, as if we can’t grasp the appreciative feeling we had for each other before…before…I’m not sure what. It’s like something important has happened, but I don’t know what it is, and that really unnerves me.

I look down, down, down, wishing I could sink into the ground, as the scope of what I’ve just said hits me. “Michael…” I am so ashamed of myself. There’s no way I can look him in the eye after saying these things. I guess I’ve just been tired of holding it in for so long, and I’ve just let it all out.

Causing problems, as usual. Why can’t I just fade out of existence?

I gather the courage to look up at him, which is just about the most severe punishment I could give myself, and his dark green eyes catch mine. There’s an odd look on his face that I can’t really decipher. It looks like he’s making a choice about something, but what could it be? He must be rethinking his decision about being my friend.

“I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean that—" I choke on my words, squirming under his intense gaze, biting my bottom lip. He doesn’t seem mad at me, which makes me brace myself, though I don’t know why.

“You don’t want me to be friends with me, then?" He asks it like it’s a genuine question, without any trace of sarcasm or anger. My chest twinges. If only he were angry at me, and it would be so much easier to walk away from him in this moment. Instead of standing on the sidewalk like a dork, wishing I could eat my words back, wondering why he’s so patient. I try to ignore the fact that he isn’t standing still, that he’s _tap tap tapping_ his foot and flexing his fingers.

I try to open my mouth to say something, but I’m stopped by his smile.

He’s _smiling_?

And now he’s pulling me into a hug. I’m stiff at first, but then I hear him tell me it’s okay. I can feel the comforting vibrations of his speech in my ear. I breathe in deeply, trying to clear my head, forgetting everything in his cinnamon-spearmint scent. I feel a headache coming on. This day has just been too much. Birthdays are supposed to be better than this.

We pull away, and I press a hand to my throbbing head. “It’s been a long day, Michael. I’m just so…”

“Forget about it, okay?” he says, slipping his fingers into mine. “It’s fine.”

Not letting go. Staying here for me, like a rock I can lean on.

He makes a face. “Your expression…you looked hilarious, do you know?”

I squint at him. “What do you mean?”

“When I asked you if you didn’t wanna be my friend? You looked so shocked and sad and frustrated all at once, I’ve never seen you get so worked up before. Is it like, your girly girl hormones or something?” He giggles, high pitched and screeching.

“Oh my gosh, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“I just assumed, since you’ve turned sixteen, isn’t that like a rite of passage or something?”

That’s when I realize he’s trying to make me feel better, so I give him a wide smile. “Well, _you_ should know, because even if you aren’t a girl, you’ve already been sixteen.”

“Or is it your time of the _month_?” He grins wickedly.

“Although you haven’t gotten the maturity factor yet.”

We pick Maria up from her friend’s house and by the time we get home, I’m in a much better mood. Mom leads us into the living room, where we’re supposed to have a “party” for me. When I walk into the room, I gasp out loud.

It’s all green! Green tablecloth, green napkins, green party hats, green streamers, green candies, green cake, even green decors that hang from the ceiling.

“Mom!" I hurry to her and hug her hard. “This is too much.”

We hear the front door open and close. “Happy birthday, sweetie!” Dad calls before he even sees me. “Okay, I’ve gotta go, I’ll call you back,” he says in a voice that tells me he’s been taking a call. He walks into the living room with us wearing a smile.

“Thanks, Dad. How are you? How was your day?”

“I had a productive day, we sorted some files and made some phone calls, my family and I got home safely, it’s my daughter’s birthday, so I’m perfect." My dad never answers a simple yes or no question with a simple yes or no, but I’ve gotten used to it.

“Hey, Scott,” Michael greets Dad, and they shake hands.

“Hi, Michael, how are you?”

“Great!” he answers exuberantly.

“Your mother and father?”

“Fine," he replies with noticeably less enthusiasm, his lips pursing. His mom and dad hate me, my family, and my friendship with their son. Probably because I’m a girl and he’s a boy. Lame, but true. As a result, he has a hot head against his parents’ ideas. I’m surprised he’s even here…but he probably blackmailed them or something to stay. They don’t even want me inside their house, convinced I’ll steal something from them — or Michael — which is why I’ve only been inside his bedroom only three times in my life, and those instances were secret, breaking in under the cover of the dead of night. That’s a story for another time, though.

Even though they wish we didn’t exist as bad role models for their child, my parents still maintain politeness and good wishes in their direction.

“Hey." My dad leans in, close to Michael’s face. “If your parents don’t want you to be here, that’s okay. It’ll be our little secret." They grin, as if sharing a secret. Then, as if that odd little exchange didn’t happen, he cries, “Let’s have a _real_ party!” and prepares his laptop.

Samba music bursts from the laptop speakers, and Dad grabs Mom and starts dancing with her. Mom’s all blushy and embarrassed, but then she starts grooving and swinging her hips as she wraps her arms around Dad. I never realized they were so good at dancing.

Maria cheers and hops in, waving her arms and twirling around. I just watch the three of them, my family, with their epic dance moves and huge smiles on their faces, and now mine is mirroring theirs, and I feel so happy. My jubilant sixteenth birthday, with my dancing family.

Maria grabs my arm. “Come on, Steph, dance!” She shoots a glance over my right shoulder. “One of you has to be my dancing partner.”

Oops. I forgot about Michael.

“No, not me.” I back away from her. “Michael, dance with her.”

“Wha—”

Before he can even finish the word, Maria has gotten a hold on him and spins him. “Yep, you’re a good partner!” she shouts, looking up, giving him a stare directly in the eyes. It’s funny to see how tall she is in relation to him; only a few inches shorter. She puts a hand on his shoulder in a dance pose and tosses him around while dancing gracefully. When he sees me, he shoots me a look saying, _This is what you’ve gotten me into._ It’s very nice to laugh at him and escape suffering. “Why don’t you dance, Steph? Just a little!”

“I don’t dance,” I tell her, but I go into the empty space on the carpet and do a handstand.

“There we go! The art of movement!” she cries, and dumps Michael on the floor and joins me with a cartwheel.

“Showoffs,” I hear him grumble, and then I stumble because he’s jumped up and caught me by the ankles.

“Hey! Let go of me! I’m gonna fall!”

“If you drop of our daughter…” my parents growl.

“I was just playing,” Michael says, setting my legs down.

“You have a hard grip! You hurt me!” Now I’m super tired. “I’m going upstairs to rest my broken legs.”

“I didn’t wound you or anything, right?” Michael’s voice sounds worried.

“I’m fine, just fatigued. You guys are awesome, by the way, rock on, sis!” Maria grins at this.

Michael follows me to my room, which is exactly what I intend. I plop on my bed and pretend to be injured, just to see how he reacts. It’s cute that he’s so concerned. “You know I’m not actually hurt, right?” I ask him.

“Duh. Of course not. I was just being _nice_.”

“As if you’ve never been before. Speaking of which…” I grab the guitar he gave me from the counter next to my bed. I am so excited to show off my skills. I strum random chords and beam at him when I’m done.

“You’re so good at this, Steph.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, can I see real quick? Sorry, the temptation is too strong for me to resist.”

“Sure, Indian giver.” I hand it over to him.

He rolls his eyes and rests the guitar on the crook of his arm.

And he starts to play.

I don’t recognize the song, but from the very first note, I wish I did. His eyes close and his whole face lights up as his fingers fly over the strings. His low voice hums the melody, but he stops when he gets to a solo. He pounds the rhythm on the body of the guitar. It’s like he’s in a trance. My mouth turns to cotton, my breath stops, and I stare at him. I never, ever, ever knew he could do things like this with a guitar.

When he’s done, he blinks, and the moment has lifted. “Here you go. Just wanted to let that out, you know?”

I am still frozen. “Michael, I didn’t know—”

He chuckles. “I’ve always wanted to be one of those rock stars and stuff. I even grew out my hair to look all—” He changes his voice to a reggae slur, whipping his long hair. “—groovy, dude!”

I laugh, and that’s when I suddenly figure out something about him.

He doesn’t like the little moments. He only sees the bigger picture. He’s the one who loosens pressure in an awkward situation, and he can slither out of anything he isn’t comfortable with. I don’t know if it’s his hyperactivity, but whenever the world stops around him, he has to keep going. He pushes forward, without any pauses or hitches. Like earlier today. Unlike me, who grasps on these moments because they’re the ones I live for.

“Here you go.” He holds out the guitar for me to take, but I feel like I shouldn’t. Like I _can’t_. It’s such a big part of who he is, and he’s handing it out to me. Like he wants to give me a piece of what he experiences every time he plucks a string.

“Play again.” I say it with such conviction it surprises me. And evidently surprises him too, but he just raises his eyebrows. “Please. You’re so talented.”

“Come on now, Steph.”

“Really!” I shove it to his chest. “One more song. Just one.”

The corner of his lips tease me with the ghost of a smile. “I don’t know about this…”

“You’re killing me here! Please?”

“Fine. What song?” He looks so reluctant.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay.”

“Come on, Steph. I practically have to now.”

“Any song you want, Michael. Any song.”

“I’ll do another song I know you don’t know, so if I mess up because you’re making me nervous, you’ll never find out.”

“Sing, too!”

“You’re so demanding!”

“I love hearing your voice. You have such a nice voice.”

The ghost of his smile materializes, a real one, his face glowing and his eyes sparkling. “Fine. Fine fine fine. If you say so.”

I lean forward as he plays again, this time singing, singing straight at me. It’s a beautiful song, absolutely breathtaking, and I don’t know the lyrics because my ears are ringing and all I can hear is the low timbre of his voice and the light riff of the guitar notes. And when I know I’m not breathing because of the way he’s looking at me I lower my gaze to his hands. The perfection of it all washes over me and I close my eyes and press my hands to my cheeks to absorb the heat of them and listen.

And he stops.

I almost sigh, but hold it in before embarrassing myself. “You’re amazing.”

Michael’s face is very close to mine, close enough that I can see the frame of blue around his pupils. He’s studying me. His eyes dart around my face and a prick of embarrassment tinges my cheeks red.

But he breaks the moment, just like he breaks all the others.

“Wanna listen to actual music?” He leans away, onto one of the pillows on my bed. “Which one of the albums do you want to listen to?” My CDs are at the top of the bookshelf that takes up one side of my bedroom. “What are you in the mood for?” He proceeds to list the billions of CDs I have.

“Michael, wait for a second.”

“Oh, wait, I forgot the EDM CDs.” Another long list.

“Let me think a bit.”

“Or maybe a soundtrack?" Michael is teasing me at this point.

I roll my eyes at him. “They’re good albums—”

“Make. Your. Decision." He’s made his voice low, like a game show host.

I get really frustrated when I face an impossible choice like this. There’s a long pause.

“I Created Disco,” I finally decide. I’m in the mood for some dance right now.

Soon, the deep bass and bleepy synth of Merrymaking At My Place burst from the CD player. Sinking into a lying position, I look up, at the ceiling. This is definitely the best part of my bedroom — it’s painted navy blue and covered in stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars. I got the idea when I was a little kid — I was scared of the dark and loved astronomy, so this was the compromise.

Slowly and reluctantly, I trudge off my bed, grab my binder and a sheet of the whitest, cleanest computer paper in the house, and start to write: _“I sincerely apologize for my impunctuality, I will do my best not to be tardy again. I sincerely apologize for my impunctuality, I will do my best not to be tardy again. I sincerely apologize for my impunctuality, I will do my best not to be tardy again. I sincerely apologize for my impunctuality, I will do my best not to be tardy again…”_

By the time I’m done with this grueling work, the CD has replayed itself three times, Michael has offered to change it four times, and I discover that my ears have stopped working and are now ringing dimly. Michael hasn’t asked what I’m doing, and I thank him internally. I don’t know what I would have said, what excuse I would’ve made. I don’t want him to think it’s his fault after my rudeness to him earlier today.

Michael looks sleepy, his eyelids hanging over his eyes, as if they’re too heavy to keep open. He looks vulnerable in his fatigue. I think about his guitar playing, and the day in general. Even though Miss Catella and the bratty girls made my day start on the wrong foot, I feel so much better now.

Throwing myself onto my bed, I close my eyes, soaking in the music. The tracks play on, and I catch myself on the verge of sleep, even though I’m listening to dance. I look up at Michael, preparing to ask if he could change the CD to X&Y, and album that would help me sleep, when I catch him staring at me, as if he’s soaking up the features of my face. When he sees I’ve opened my eyes, he asks, “Do you need something?”

“I have a question. Aren’t your parents going to get worried? It must be pretty late.”

“I called them. I’ll be sleeping over.” I must have really been immersed if I didn’t hear the inevitable fight he probably had with them over this privilege.

“But you don’t have any pajamas or stuff like that.”

“It’s fine. I can survive.”

“Could you play X&Y, please?”

“Sure, Steph."

Now the once-intense music quietly blasting from the CD player has turned into the soft, gentle crooning of Square One, the opening track on the album. The ballad makes me sleepy, and I sink into oblivion before I can warn Michael, my thoughts a hazy blur between guitar notes and memories. I know I’m a deep sleeper, and I try to force myself awake, but the fatigue from today has been building up in me. I’m not sure, but right before I fall victim to temptation, I think I hear a real guitar and Michael’s voice mixed in with the music, and Maria’s voice asking what’s happened to me.


	3. Ready for the Weekend

_**Friday, March 25** **th** _

My life resumes as normal after my birthday. Miss Catella accepts my written cursive apology but her attitude towards me is still sour, Vanessa and Chloë still hate my guts for no apparent reason, and I still have a good reputation in school.

Spring break is the welcome freedom from all this chaos in my school life. I don’t really expect anything different from average, probably just chilling at the house and hanging out with Michael.

However, my parents have other plans.

Mom tells Maria and I, along with Michael, when we get to my house. We are happy, flushed with the exertion of exercise, and laughing together when we walk through the door. I’m prepared to rush upstairs and get my guitar to coax Michael to teach me a few chords, when Mom calls us over.

“Maria, Papa and I wanted to do something special for your birthday.” She rolls her r’s, and her accent is especially prominent. I love it. It reminds me of home.

“Really? Cool!” Maria cries. The nice thing about her birthday is that it’s during spring break, so it’s easier to prepare a particularly fun day out. Maria doesn’t settle for less.

“We wanted to take you horseback riding.”

The world stops rotating on its axis.

Just kidding. I look at my sister, bracing myself for the volcano that will erupt from her. She is staring at Mom disbelievingly.

“ _No hay manera._ ”

“Yes way." Mom winks.

“ _CABALGATAS?!_ ”

“It’s going to be a long drive, though.”

“ _CABALGATAS!!!!!!_ ”

To be fair, the way Maria’s voice squeaks uncontrollably, I should add a whole lot more exclamation marks, but you get the picture.

Excited beyond all understanding, Maria starts prattling in rapid-fire Spanish. “ _Quién le importa si es una largo camino?! Nunca he salido cabalgatas! Esto será tan impresionante! Con los caballos auténticos! ¿Crees tu que extremos trasera conseguirán magullada, sin embargo? He leído puede ser que lastime para sentarse por algunas horas, y-_ ”

“We’ll be going on Monday,” Mom interupts.

Maria doesn’t notice the clear please-stop-babbling gesture. “Awesome! And I-”

“Congrats, Maria,” Michael says, and I feel bad she’s told us this news in front of Michael. She isn’t even speaking in Spanish to emphasize the fact that it’s a secret. I know Maria had been thinking the same thing, which is why she switched to Spanish after receiving the news. Even if she was trying to hide that she was excited, she failed miserably. Very miserably.

“You know you are coming too, right?” Mom asks, sounding as if she’s serious.

“What?”

“We would never leave you behind. You are coming with us, Michael.”

“Sweet!" Michael’s face lights up, and falls. “My mom and dad would never let me come with you." His face suddenly turns hard. “That’s so not fair. I wish I had different parents.”

“No! Don’t say that!" Mom orders reproachfully. “Your parents are wonderful people.”

Michael gives her a look, which she ignores.

“Just because your mother and father don’t have the same mindset as you doesn’t mean they’re wrong,” Mom forges on.

“Okay, Bernicia." Michael looks defiant but ashamed.

“But we may be able to convince them to let you come.”

Michael’s left eyebrow shoots up.

“It will be clear soon,” Mom remarks mysteriously

* * *

_**Saturday, March 26** **th** _

We have to pack.

Pack, pack, pack. Packing, packing, packing.

It isn’t like we’re moving or anything, but there’s still _so much_ to do before we can go to the horseback-riding stable. We’re staying at a nearby lodge overnight, but I didn’t know we would need so many clothes for _two days and one night_.

“Does this match, Mom?”

“ _Claro que no!_ " Mom cries indignantly. “ _¡Tu no puedes vestir de verde todo el tiempo, a dondequiera que vayas!_ "

“But I like green!”

“ _¿Qué tal esta camiseta AZUL con estas jeans?_ "

“Yeah, that’s not that bad, I guess.”

My mom is, honestly, a fashionista. She can’t _stand_ the sight of someone, especially her children, wearing the same outfit twice in a row, or shoes that don’t match with their earrings, or miscellaneous things that no matter how hard I try, I just don’t find relevant to my life.

“Mom, don’t you think seven outfits and three pajama sets are enough for two days and one night of vacation?”

“ _¿Pero, cariño, qué pasa si usted caes del caballo y fastidiarla con tus hermosos pantalones vaqueros blancos? ¡Ah, sí, los pantalones vaqueros blancos! Me olvidaba empacar esos!_ ”

“I’m not going to wear white jeans on a horse! Mom, I won’t even need them. Isn’t it a better idea to wear those ugly ones with holes in the knees?”

“Mamá!” Maria calls from the next room. “ _Mi maleta está llena!_ "

“Share a suitcase with Stephanie,” Mom answers.

Maria barges into my room. “How come her suitcase is like twice as big as mine?”

“I could not find a bigger one for you, Maria. I am sorry.”

“You can have my suitcase, Maria.” I’m glad I have an excuse to pack less clothing.

Mom suddenly rushes out, the way she’s done so many times, to retrieve an item of clothing she has forgotten to suggest for me.

I get myself ready for an onslaught of apparel.

“Mom, why do we need sunglasses?”

“There might be a lot of sun.”

“It’s late March, there isn’t going to be enough sun to wear sunglasses. We’ll look like fools.” I pause. “Fools. April Fools’ Day. Ha ha ha.”

Maria rolls her eyes.

“We don’t need sunglasses,” Dad calls from another room. He has extremely sharp hearing. He is also very lucky. He doesn’t need Mom to figure out his fashion life.

“Okay, but dear—”

“No hats either. They’ll get lost easily.”

“They might—”

“It’s okay, honey.”

Mom sighs, deeming the conversation concluded.

Maria turns to her bed, where neat piles of clothing are stacked, and then back at the luggage. “Now, how are we going to fit that in the suitcase?”

“We don’t need all this stuff!” I can’t help but exclaim.

“Don’t complain, or I might change my mind!” Dad calls tauntingly.

I don’t say anything more. Soon we hear a knock on the bedroom door.

“Can I come in?" It’s Dad.

“Yeah.”

He walks in, wearing a light beige dress shirt and tan corduroy pants.

“How do I look?” he asks, and we all stand in a row, a family ritual we have when someone inquires about an outfit: Maria, then me, then Mom.

**Scene 1: Clothing Conflict**

**Maria:** It isn’t bad. The pants are funny.

 **Me:** Okay. Why not?

 **Mom** : WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU WEARING?!

 **Dad:** What’s wrong with it?

 **Mom:** Cotton fabric and corduroy don’t match!

 **Dad:** Cotton fabric? * _What the—_ *

 **Mom:** Beige and tan? What are you thinking?

 **Maria and I:** *Exchange glances, roll eyes in synchrony*

**After many minutes of irrelevant deliberation, we have finally reached our verdict!**

**Dad:** You know what? I’ll just forget this one.

 **Maria and I:** Hallelujah! The heart-wrenching wait is over!

**End of scene.**

* * *

_**Sunday, March 27** **th** _

“Hey, Steph.” It’s Maria’s voice, light, with an undertone of mischief. “I have something to tell you.”

She drags me to her room, and we get comfy on her bed, chilling out on the many pillows adorning it. We’re surrounded by the deep violet of her room and abundance of paintings by legendary artists (she has an A+ in art, which just happens to be her favorite subject), complemented by photos of cute animals. I grab a stuffed unicorn, hug it, and ask her what’s up.

“I’m just going to go straight to the point." She opens her mouth to say more, but closes it again.

“What is it?” I’m getting a bit impatient. I want to get the packing over with.

“I’m not sure how you’ll take this news though, because your head is like a rock.”

“It is not!”

“It is.” A grin crawls on her face. “Michael has a crush on you.”

“Wait, what?” I stutter. Is she joking?

“Umm, yeah, duh!" She crosses her eyes. “Man, you’re slow. He’s positively smitten!”

“Maria, if you’re kidding, it really isn’t funny.”

“I am _so_ not kidding. GIRL, he’s in love! It’s like a love story! He thinks you’re beautiful, and he can’t tear his eyes off of you!”

“Maria, that sounds very, very…ahem.”

“I know, that’s why I said it.”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes and open my mouth to say something, but Maria interrupts.

“DO NOT say you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll give you a moment to think about it, okay? But I SWEAR, he’s been waiting to kiss you FOREVER, he’s talked to me and I told him it’s a great idea!”

“You _told_ him it’s a great idea to _kiss me_?!”

“Why not? You would be such a perfect couple! I can just see it!" She’s waving her arms around flamboyantly. “Like, first you’d have to kiss, then you’d have to REALLY kiss — like MAKE OUT — and then you’d have to go on your first date, and then he’d propose, and then you’d get married — and of course I’ll be your maid of honor — and then you’d go on your honeymoon, and then you’d get your own house, and then you’d have a kid together! Or more than one! It’s so perfect!”

While she blabbers on about her visions of my future life with Michael, I use the extra time to think, squeezing the guts out of the stuffed unicorn I’m holding.

Michael _loves_ me? No way. He would’ve told me all this time. He wouldn’t keep something like this from me.

“So, why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Oh, I’m thinking.”

“You love him too, right?”

Do I? “I don’t know! _Maria!_ ”

“O-kay-ee,” Maria says, somehow transforming the two-syllable word into three. “Just asking!”

“What, you want me to like Michael and go out on dates with him and all that other stuff you said?”

“Of course! He’s so nice to you, haven’t you noticed?”

I take a deep breath, puffing up my cheeks, and blow it out in a fast jet of air, my bangs flying out everywhere in front of my face.

“And come on, isn’t he hot?”

If I was drinking a beverage at that moment, I would’ve sprayed the contents of my mouth all over her. “ _What?_ ”

“There’s a reason all the girls have crushes on him. And that reason is looks.” My cheeks turn hot. “You’ve never once looked at him and thought that he was dreamy?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, I knew it, but never allowed myself to dwell on the fact.”

“You’re hopeless.” She groans. “Honestly, you’re super smart at school and practically a genius, but you’re clueless when it comes to relationships.”

“Like that’s a bad thing.” I swat her with the unicorn.

“It is! You need to catch up with the times. You don’t even know about—” She clamps a hand over her mouth and her eyes widen.

An eyebrow rises. “Know about what?”

“Blair…” she whimpers.

“Blair? Who’s Blair?”

“A friend.”

“Boy or girl? With a name like that it could go either way.”

“Booooooooooooooooooyyyyyyy,” she says so long and drawn out that I squeal.

“Boy? As in boyfriend?”

“Maaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyybbbbbbbeeeeeeeee…”

“Ohmygoshthat’sawesomeishecuteisheniceishesmarthowlonghaveyoubeentogetherhaveyoukissedyet?”

“What?” Her face twists. “Don’t tell anyone!”

“AreyoukiddingIbarelytalkwhowouldItellonlyMichaelbutI’dnevertellhimsomethinglikethis!”

“Slower, please, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Okaysorryit’sjustI’msoexcitedforyou, I mean, okay, sorry. I’m so excited for you! What does he look like?”

She sighs and stares off into the distance as if she’s imagining him in her mind. “Well, he has the cutest red hair—”

“You’re dating a guy named Blair with cute red hair?”

“And bright blue eyes like summer skies!” Her face glows. “He’s super tall too and he has freckles like you! And glasses like Harry Potter, and it just makes him hotter!”

“He sounds more like a Weasley, though. You really hit the jackpot with him, Maria.” I snicker.

She glares. “If you saw him, you’d like him a lot. He’s super sweet.”

“No, I believe you. I’m sure you have the best taste in boys. Have you guys, you know, kissed yet?” She turns a bright scarlet. I gasp. “Ohwowhowdiditfeelhowlongagowasheallweirdaboutitwhokissedwhodidyoubothleaninwasitbadatall?”

“You’re doing the talkinginoneblurredword thing again.”

“Sorry! How did it _feel_? Ugh, I’m such a gossip girl.”

“Every female teenager has a gossip girl side hidden in them. It took me a while to glean it out of you.”

“That’s really nice and philosophical, Maria,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Answer my question!”

“It was…is it weird to say it was perfect?”

“No, not at all! When did you meet him?”

“Freshman year, he was new. He had a crush on me. Because who can resist _this_?” She flips her hair and gives a fake flirtatious smile.

I laugh out loud. “Did you like him then?”

“Not really. But then he asked me out and somehow I said yes.”

“And when was this?”

“You remember that time I said I was watching the boys’ basketball team play?”

“Where were you, a restaurant?”

“You’re not mad at me or anything?”

“No. It’s really hard to.”

“Well, we had the nicest picnic together. We saw the sun set over us, with all the trees and everything. It was so romantic!”

“That sounds really nice.”

“He kissed me then.”

“How long was it?”

“Short, but all gentle and stuff.” She blushes when she says this. “He was so embarrassed.”

“Maria, I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither. I’m fourteen, turning fifteen, and I got kissed before my sixteen-year-old sister? That sounds a little backwards.”

“But no one would want to be with someone like me, and that’s the way I’d like it to stay.”

“Except Michael, of course.” She glances at my skeptical face. “You don’t believe me, do you.”

“Not really.”

“Want me to prove it? I have a plan.”

I don’t think it’ll go in my favor, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What is it?”

“Michael’s going to come over eventually. I’ll get the doorbell, and ask him about his relationship with you. You can just overhear the answers to my questions.”

I’m not so sure about the brilliance of this plan. “And we won’t get found out?”

“Positive.” Her face is glowing, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She’s so excited, she can barely sit still.

How can I say no?

“Fine,” I concede, hitting her with the unicorn as hard as possible.

I’d better figure out a way to get out of this.

* * *

_**Monday, March 28** **th** _

After the madness of packing comes the rechecking, a procedure chock-full of miscellaneous articles, interruptions, and to keep it short, a funfest of love and joy. This is such a rigorous routine, my mother has switched to English to carry it out quicker.

“Clothes?”

“Check.”

“Pajamas?”

“Check.”

“Underwear?”

“Yep.”

“Sunglasses?”

“I still don’t understand why—”

“Umbrella?”

“It isn’t going to—”

“Fancy red coat you only wear on special occasions?”

“I have it, Mom.”

“Checkered coat?”

“Check. Ha ha ha. A pun.” I always feel the need to point out puns.

“Leather coat?”

“Why can’t you do that thing where you just say ‘coat’ and that counts for all the coats I packed?" I say this in an inquiring tone, hoping she doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I wanted to make sure, honey.”

Relief. “I have all my coats, Mom.”

_Ten minutes later:_

“Headbands?”

“MO-om!" This is Maria. “You already said that. We’ve got everything we need, okay?”

“I’m just making sure,” she affirms. That’s her answer for everything. She opens her mouth to say something, probably another article of clothing, but then we hear a knock on the door.

“I’LL GET IT!” Maria shouts, and before I can even blink, she’s dashing downstairs and opening the door.

Slowly and carefully, I sneak down the stairs after her.

“…of course you can come in.”

A pause as she listens to Michael saying something.

“…well, duh, obviously you’re here for Steph.”

She lowers her voice conspiratorially, even though in honesty it isn’t any quieter than before. “So Michael, let’s talk — when are you gonna kiss her?”

I freeze in my tracks. Wow, Maria. Laying it thick, as usual.

“Maria…"

“You know you like her. If I were you, I would like her too. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

There’s a pause. Oh, my goodness. What is Michael going to say to that? I duck my head so he doesn’t see me eavesdropping, cover my mouth with my hand to silence myself, and press my head to my knees, listening in. I desperately wish I could see his face.

“Admit it.”

“Well…”

“I knew it!”

What?!

“Don’t shout so loud!”

“Pfft, it’s so obvious, dude.”

“I’m doing that bad of a job hiding it?”

Maria snickers. “You’re actually doing a very good job. The only reason I know is because I’m a human being with a brain that can process logic. Even though she can’t. I swear…but seriously. Think about it. She’s cool, nice, smart, and definitely beautiful. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t like her.”

No no no no no. She’s not supposed to convince him to like me!

“I do like her, Matchmaker Maria.”

“Nice nickname! I should force everyone at school to call me that. _A-ny-way_ , I know you _like_ her. The real question is, do you _like-like_ her?”

I don’t want to hear the answer. I quickly and quietly pull myself up the stairs and through the hallway, until I’ve reached the far wall. Racing to my feet, I call, “Who is it, Maria?”

If I didn’t know who it was already, I would have never asked this question, especially with her name in it (you know, like if it was a stranger or an ax murderer).

“Hi, Steph,” Michael says, greeting me with a big smile. Forcing a natural one back, I say hi and explain to him why there’s such a mess in the house.

“Yeah, we’ve been getting ready for the—”

“About that!” Michael’s voice is excited. “I can come!”

“You can come?" My smile vanishes. “What did you say to them?" I’m afraid he’s lied to persuade his parents to let him go.

“Oh, you don’t want me to come?”

I rush down the stairs and throw my arms around him. “Youcancomeyoucancomeyoucancomethat’sawesome!”

He grunts as I slam into him. I can practically feel Maria’s triumphant smile.

“How did you convince your parents?" I’m so happy.

“I told them it was for Maria. They don’t have a problem with Maria, because they think I’m not friends with her—”

“Hi, Michael!” Dad calls from the bedroom. Michael quickly pulls away from me, making my suspicions one step closer to being validated.

When Dad walks out, he’s wearing that outfit with the beige dress shirt and tan corduroy pants. I laugh, and Michael looks at me.

“Shhh, Stephanie! Now, Michael, I want your honest opinion. Forget that Stephanie just laughed. Is this outfit okay?”

“Umm,” Michael stutters, glancing at me again.

I gesture to Dad and say, “Yeah. How is it?" I can tell he’s trying to coax the right answer from me, but I’m not about to give anything away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom sneakily poke her head out of the guest room door and carefully watch him.

“You want my honest opinion?”

“I did ask you for it, after all.”

“Not really.”

“YES!” Mom shouts childishly. “I KNEW IT!" She jumps out of the bedroom and smiles at Dad sweetly. “Umm, go change, honey.”

The teenagers snicker.

Dad directs a look at Mom and slinks, defeated, back to the bedroom they share.

“Do you want to stay here, Michael?” Mom asks.

“Actually, I have to go. My parents think I’m at the library to check out a book, and I’ve gotta get there fast.”

Mom decides to let that slide, but allows him to leave only after he’s gotten a granola bar to eat on the way, “because young boys like you need plenty of food to grow up to be strong men,” as she says before he walks out the door. As he waves at me, I think about the conversation Maria planned for me to overhear, and wonder what it means for our relationship.

* * *

_**Wednesday, March 30 th**_

“Time to wake up, Stephanie." Mom shakes my shoulder gently.

I peel my eyes open. Although she thinks I’ve been asleep, I was actually up all night. I can’t help myself, I’m just too excited. It’s better that I haven’t fallen asleep (in my opinion, the opposite of Mom’s), because I’m a really deep sleeper, and I probably wouldn’t have woken up on her schedule.

“It’s ten o’clock,” Mom says.

“I slept that late?” I yawn, forcing myself not to smile at my little white lie.

“Honey, we need to get to the lodge to check in at three, which means we should leave at about 12:30.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Could you call Michael and tell him he should get over here at quarter past twelve?”

“Yep. Do you think he’ll be awake?" He doesn’t like waking up early.

“Yes, but make sure to call his cell. His parents might get mad if we call _them_.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Also, you can only call him after you’ve made your bed, brushed your teeth, and checked over if you have everything you need.”

I hurry to finish up what I’ve got to do. It’s a little past eleven when I press 6 on my cell phone, speed-dialing his number. (The only five numbers before his are the ones I can contact my family.) The only reason I have a cell phone is because I walk home from school. My mom is a stay-at-home mom, and it’s my dad who brings in the income. They wouldn’t get me one otherwise.

“Hi." Michael sounds as happy to hear my voice as I am to hear his.

“Hi." This is our typical greeting, no unnecessary weirdness.

“Are you calling to hear my voice?”

Can he read my mind even through the phone? “No, Michael.”

“Okay, just checking." I can hear the smile in his tone.

“You should come over around 12:15."

“Is it okay if I come at noon sharp?”

“You could come right now and I wouldn’t care.”

Gosh, that totally sounded like I was flirting with him. Am I overthinking this?

“I kinda want to come over right now, actually. My parents are making such a big deal out of this trip. They act like they’ll never see me again." He snickers. “I keep telling them I’m seventeen, I’m not a baby anymore, but they act like your parents will abduct me and throw me into a bucket of horse manure.”

It sounds mean, but it’s funny. I laugh.

“Sorry. Was that insensitive?”

That makes me laugh a little harder. “Not at all.”

There’s silence, and I can hear him breathing on the other end.

“This is nice,” Michael says, his voice…different. Yes, something seems different. It sounds gravely and deep, and with a jolt it hits me why he’s my closest friend. My face flames. “Can you feel it?” he asks. “Or is it just my crazy imagination?”

“Yeah, I can feel it." I hope I sound normal.

We are quiet for a few more seconds.

“I should hang up — I mean, I’ve got to go." I want to kick myself. It sounded like I was banishing him from my phone, although I really want this to be longer, this nice, expansive silence.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. See ya at noon." I want to tell him not to go, but it’s too late now. “Bye, Michael.”

“Adios, Steph.”

I press the end button, and find my finger doesn’t want to let go. I look at the duration of our call. Two minutes and fifteen seconds.

* * *

I can’t stop looking at the clock in the kitchen, as if I’m counting down the seconds until Michael arrives. 11:54, 11:55, 11:56…time can’t go slower than this. The doorbell finally rings, and of course, Maria’s at the door before me.

“Hey,” she greets Michael.

“Hey, yourself." He opens his mouth to say more, but then sees me behind Maria. “Oh, hi, Steph." He flashes me a smile, but he looks so guilty, as if he’s been caught red-handed doing something wrong. Maria looks eagerly between the two of us, as if she’s waiting for some action. “You guys all ready?” Michael asks.

“No, not yet. We still have to put some stuff in the car.”

“Can I help?”

“Hello, Michael. We would gladly appreciate your help." That’s my dad, climbing down the stairs holding a huge suitcase. His voice stretched from exertion, he throws it down with a thump to the floor.

“Would you mind,” he says, panting, “carrying this to the car?”

Of course Michael doesn’t mind. Maria and I help out too, and by 12:30, we’re all set to go. Right on schedule.


	4. Halcyon Days

Although I thought the drive would be boring, it’s actually really fun. There are so many plants and animals along the roadsides as we start driving into the forest, and the three teens in the backseat (us) play a game where we have to identify them all. Maria wins by a landslide. She also has the map, and she tells Dad directions occasionally.

I take a catnap after a while, my sleepless night coming back to haunt me. When I wake up, my parents tell us we only have an hour until we get to the lodge to pack up our things and ride the horses at 4:30. Maria can hardly wait. This will be the first time any of us have ever gone horseback riding, and I’m sure it’ll be an amazing experience.

I stare out the window, glad I got this seat. Maria’s soft breathing is comforting and soothing. Michael sits to my right, between me and Maria. When I feel eyes on me, I turn, and see it’s him.

“Hey.”

“Hay is for horses, isn’t it?" He winks.

“Ha ha, nice joke.” My eyes veer back to the window, but I feel him watching me.

“Do you need anything?” I don’t even turn.

“Not really."

“Are you sure?”

He doesn’t answer, and I glance at him. He has a look on his face that leave my eyes on him. Shifting his body so that he faces me, his eyes never leaving my face, he leans forward and kisses me.

My breath hitches on its way out as he slides a hand into my hair, pushing it away from my face. His other hand takes mine. Can he feel it trembling?

I try to focus, gather thoughts, discern fact, process logic. His lips are soft and his hand in mine is warm. He smells like a mix of spearmint and cinnamon. I find this out when I inhale to calm myself, and my brain relaxes, even though my heart is racing.

This kiss so long, a full five seconds. When he pulls away, I open my eyes. I didn’t realize I’d closed them. Does that mean I like him? Storybook characters always close their eyes during a kiss, but should I really trust fantasy to discern how I feel? I don’t know. I need to figure this out.

I turn to Michael, to find an answer in his face, but he isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s staring down at his hands, watching their movement as he wrings them. After a few seconds, he’s bored with that and starts running his hands through his hair, then itching his neck, then tapping his fingers, just complete fidgeting. He looks ready to crawl into the engine of the car and spontaneously combust. Now I start to fidget, curling the ends of my hair, picking at my nails, biting my lip.

Finding nothing else to do after a while, I force my eyes to the window, taking some time to think about what just happened.

**Scene 11: Mental Mutiny**

**First half of me (the sensible side):** Okay, Steph. How did you feel about that?

 **Second half of me (the panicking side):** I don’t know! Am I his girlfriend now? What does that mean exactly? How do you become someone’s girlfriend?

 **First half:** Calm down. Did you like the kiss? Answer this truthfully.

 **Second half:** What does that even mean anyway? Like, the taste? *laughs, but it comes out like a maniacal cackle*

 **First ½:** *sighs* You’re hopeless. Want another question?

 **Second ½:** No—

 **1** **st** **half:** Did you kiss him back?

 **2** **nd** **half:** Well, that depends.

 **1** **st** **½:** Stop it. This is serious. How did you — I like it?

 **2** **nd** **½:** I…I…I…

 **1** **st** **½:** Yes?

 **2** **nd** **½:** I guess I liked it…a little…?

This revelation jolts me out of my subconscious spiel. Or maybe it’s the pothole we’ve driven over. The car lurches as the tires lunge for solid concrete.

I jerk forward, almost slamming into the driver’s seat, the seat belt snagging me in its triangular embrace. Michael instinctively throws his left hand out in front of me, holding me back.

“Guys!” Dad shouts. “You fine?”

“Yeah!” Maria screams back. Why is everyone so loud?

“Are you okay?” Michael asks me frantically, his eyes wild, his arm still across my chest, locking me in place. Then, suddenly, he draws back and looks away.

“Michael." I put a hand on his cheek before I realize what I’m doing. He turns around, his eyes still holding a look of instability. My fingers hover on his face, our eyes still stuck on each other’s, and my hand slowly falls down into my lap. The move suddenly feels cold and sinful. “What’s wrong, Michael?” I ask, my voice shaking. Of course I know what’s wrong, so what am I saying?

“I don’t know how to say this, Stephanie.”

He never calls me by my full name. No one does, except adults, and my heart twists. “Tell me.”

“I just…really like you,” he says hesitantly. “And…I don’t know what I was getting at there.”

I hold his unsteady gaze. I must appear confident, or else I’ll discourage him to no end. Oh, he must be killing himself here. And it’s for no reason, too. The kiss wasn’t that bad. Actually, it was…

Blood rushes to my face. Oh, my gosh. What’s wrong with me?

“Don’t say anything,” Michael mutters. “I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s okay,” I stammer, ignoring his request for my silence. “You’re not stupid, not at all, and it’s fine that you said that. I wanted to know." I definitely can't, _won’t_ tell him how badly, irrationally I want to kiss him, too.

He glances at me, his eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“I…" Now I’m the one that’s stuttering. “I don’t know how I feel, and I just want to talk to you.”

That’s when I remember we’re in a car, with my parents inside. I quickly look around. Maria’s still sleeping, the map in her arms, and so is Mom. Dad doesn’t appear to have ever had his eyes off the road.

I lean close to him and whisper in his ear, “Can we talk about this later?”

“Yeah." He looks so awkward, and on a whim, I kiss his cheek, right where his dimple is, convincing myself it’s completely harmless. He looks so surprised, and I can’t help but laugh. He allows a crooked smile, and I notice his good looks, trying to keep myself from any long, in-depth energy on the topic.

The rest of the drive is a blend of dull radio music, sleep, bored chatter, and an aloof manner between Michael and I. When we reach the lodge, I’m the second one out of the car (after Maria, of course). Stretching, we grab our bags and suitcases and head to the lobby.

The lodge is a cozy, cabin-like dwelling, where we’ll be spending the night. Our parents want to visit our room and check the place out, but Maria insists on going to the stable.

The stable is family-owned and has a happy aura, with friendly staff that all look related. We see and meet our horses. My horse is Sundance, a petite horse. I personally don’t know why I got the smallest horse, because I am pretty tall. He’s a beautiful amber color, with fur that shimmers in the sunlight, hence the name. Maria’s is Poncho, a moderately large horse, whose coat is white, with pretty brown patches. Mom’s is Twofeathers, a medium sized horse, with perfect white coat. Turns out, that was the exact color Mom wanted. Dad’s is Bear, a huge horse, with a rich brown coat, like dark chocolate. In my opinion, he suited Dad perfectly. Michael’s is Spirit, a large horse with a pristine black coat. It’s weird, bordering on creepy, the way those horses suit our personalities. Spirit is the perfect name for a horse Michael would ride.

We ride with a trainer named Camille, a very nice-looking girl who doesn’t look much older than me. Dad rides in front, with me behind him, then Maria, then Mom, and Michael brings up the rear. Maria’s horse is very slow, and Michael’s is very fast, which causes a little disruption, but not enough to come even close to ruining our day. Camille tells us all about the stable, and Maria asks so many questions, as the animal addict. The ride is so nice, roaming through the gorgeous wildlife. The trail is rough, but that adds for adventure. It’s an amazing, perfect day. When we arrive back at our starting point, my heart sinks. I don’t want it to be over, it was so beautiful.

After thanking Camille and giving her a tip, we leave, going to a restaurant nearby. That happens to be family-owned, too. We have a great dinner and head to the lodge.

We have two rooms, connected to each other. One room is the one where everyone just hangs out, and the other is where all our stuff is, and where we take showers.

When it gets really late, our parents are tired. But us teens don’t want to go to sleep. Our house doesn’t have cable, and Maria and I want to stay up all night watching very inappropriate TV shows. Since they don’t know of our vile plan, our parents banish us to the spare room.

We turn on the television to chill in our pajamas, bored, watching the news. There are two beds. My sister and I sit on one, Michael lies sprawled on the other. I can’t keep my eyes off of him, and that unnerves me. I still can’t believe he kissed me. I can’t believe he likes me in that way. Some part of me still believes he did it as a mistake, or out of pity that I’m practically the only girl in my grade that doesn’t have a boyfriend.

But some part of me doesn’t want that to be true. Of course, this is a very, very tiny part of me, so small that I can almost deny it exists. But I know it does. And that part of me begs to be listened to.

What does it want?

It wants me to talk to him. It wants me to confide in him.

So, very much against my better judgement, I get up and sit down next to him. When I turn to Maria, she makes a face that suggests very dangerous things. I glare at her and lie down, my back on the bed, glancing at Michael to see his reaction. His eyes lock on mine, holding a question.

 _Talk_ , I mouth.

His nod is almost imperceptible. He scoots a little closer to me, and his leg brushes mine. Electricity suddenly courses through my body, and I tighten my fingers into a fist.

“I’m so confused.”

Three simple words that sum up the entirety of my mental state.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” Embarrassment laces his voice. He looks away.

A thought flashes in my mind — _He shouldn’t apologize._

“No…no. Don’t. It’s fine.” I feel really guilty. I stare at the ceiling, which is a pale green. The green calms me down, until I think about my home. My mind drifts to the ceiling of my own bedroom, with its stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars that form constellations. When I’m confused, all I need to do is look at them and try to name them, and soon I forget everything troublesome.

Of course, there are no constellations here.

I try naming them in my head, labeling them on my mental map. _Orion, Leo, Aries, Perseus, Cassiopeia, Pisces, Libra, Virgo, Sagittarius, Taurus, Aquarius, Cygnus, Capricornus, Lyra, Scorpius, Gemini…_

This is where my train of thought ends.

Because I feel a hand holding mine.

Obviously I know who it is. But I still feel surprised when I look down and see Michael’s light, unbelievably smooth hand against mine — callused, dark, totally unworthy. When his index finger traces an idle circle in my open palm, it’s like his skin is a lighter and I’m the match, because I can feel the heated blood rush through me.

Is this because…?

Oh, no. Am I in love with him?

Love is a strong word. It shouldn’t be used lightly. But even I have to admit I’m reacting to this. I don’t know what’s going on with me.

Michael turns to me and meets my eyes, quickly pulling his hand away. He seems to be asking me telepathically if he can touch me. We’ve never had this problem before — shying away from physical contact with each other. We’ve had wrestling matches, football games, basketball shootout shoves, and he’s afraid to put his hand on mine, now.

I don’t want anything to change all of a sudden just because he’s made a move.

I raise my eyebrow at him and smile, slipping my fingers through his. His whole demeanor changes in one second — his face lights up, and he appears to relax, his shoulders loosening up (I never noticed he was stiff in the first place) and his eyes seem less guarded.

“I want to talk,” I whisper, trying to concentrate on the words I’m saying instead of the fact that his fingers are wandering up my arm. “I want to be completely honest.”

“Me too.” He looks closer to me than before, when he seemed so far away.

“Erm, okay.” Oh, this is so hard. “I think…I think…”

A smile teases his eyes. “Changed your mind?”

My teeth find their way to my lip and I shove the words from my throat. “Try a second time?”

Gosh, I wasn’t planning the inflection at the end of that sentence! It wasn’t a question! Why do I sound so unsure?

“Come again?” The steadily playful look in his eyes flickers.

He’s never used that phrase in his life before, at least not to me.

“There’s no way on earth I’m going to repeat what I just said.”

“Okay, that means I heard you right. Really?”

“Stop looking so eager.”

He mutters a dirty word. “Is it that apparent?”

“You’re amusing me way too much right now.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Just kiss her already!” cries a voice behind me.

When I turn around, Maria has an amused but exasperated expression on her face. “We don’t need this,” she says, and turns the TV off. “Why are you guys denying it? Just say you are in love with each other and freakin’ get the kissing stuff over with.”

“Can we have some privacy?” Michael sounds annoyed.

“Ooh, _privacy_.” Although she doesn’t know it, Maria’s words are kind of making me freak out.

“Maria, please?” I ask, even though I don’t mean to.

“Okay, fine.” She gets up and walks towards the door, opens the door—

—turns off the light before hopping out, closing the door behind her.

I try not to panic at the complete and pitch-black darkness that suddenly engulfs us, but I can’t see anything, and I don’t like it when I can’t see.

“Well, this got weird really quickly,” Michael says.

I laugh, a nervous, shock-choked laugh, and try not to sound scared. “If either of us move, bad things could happen.”

“Do you think I should get up and turn the light back on?”

“What if you trip or fall and hurt yourself?”

“Do you really want it to be this dark?” His voice is shaky.

I try to joke my way through this. “What, are you scared?”

“No! It’s just…I mean…forget it.”

“Umm, maybe we should,” and I sigh. Talk about inconvenient. “We can still…”

“I just don’t want to screw it up.”

“Screw it up?”

“Okay, sorry for my crude language, but I’ve got to do this right if I can look you in the face again.”

“I can’t see you anyway.”

“You know what I mean.” There’s a trace of laughter in his words.

“Well, you didn’t do it wrong before, so I guess you know how to do this already.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

Did I just say that?

“You mean it?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah?" I don’t want to speak for the rest of my life, but I don’t want to deny him of the truth… “Maybe we should try to find each other.” I attempt to change the subject. “You know, so nothing embarrassing happens right now.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my hands low, and you keep yours high, so we avoid some stuff.”

I tentatively reach forward, hoping to feel his chest at some point. He’s only two inches taller than me, so it should be right around—

“Is this you?” Michael’s voice rips through the dark.

I try not to hyperventilate, because his hand is on my waist. “Yeah.” My voice is noticeably tight.

“Oh, no.” His hand draws away.

“Just my hip.”

“Sorry. Are you really uncomfortable with this right now?”

“Not uncomfortable so much as…” The only reason I’m having problems is because Michael’s fingers have curled around my waist. Then he lets go and puts just a finger on my skin, carefully sliding up until he knows he’s at my shoulder, and slips his fingers into my hair.

I can’t breathe.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly.

“Mmm-hmm,” I force out of my throat, which has now closed up. He moves closer, until our chests are touching. I hook an arm around his neck.

“Are you ready?”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Yes.”

“Okay. I’m leaning forward, I’m—”

He is cut off by my cheek.

Michael’s lips linger there on my skin for a few seconds. “Where am I?” he whispers breathily.

I realize I’m clutching his shirt like it’s a lifeline. “My cheek.”

He doesn’t respond, but slides down and reaches my mouth. He tightens his grip on my hair, and kisses me again, tilting his head a bit. I don’t know what to do, so I just close my eyes, though the inside of my eyelids are no darker than the air around us, and focus on him, on _this_.

Oh, he’s so gentle, and the kiss is so perfect, soft and sweet and thoughtful, if a kiss can be that way. As if he’s thinking about me the whole time, as if he doesn’t want to do anything wrong, to make this flawless for me. And he’s succeeding. One hand slips to his cheek, and I know I’m kissing him back.

Then he stops, pulling away.

I almost ask what’s wrong, but I hold my tongue before the words manage to slip out.

“I don’t want to get carried away,” Michael murmurs. His breathing is hard, sharp, as if there isn’t enough air in the world to satisfy his lungs. I wish I could see his face. I feel very hot and tingly, a sensation taking over my body.

There is a silence. All we’re doing is lying here, the air crackling between us. I hear the door open and light floods in. Maria struts through and smiles when she sees us, still very close together, our arms around each other. We jump and squirm away, but it’s too late. The damage has already been done.

“Yes! I knew it! That was so overdue,” my sister crows, pounding a fist in the air. “It’s a shame that I interrupted. Who knows what—”

“Ma- _ri_ -a!” Michael groans. His face is redder than Mom’s lipstick. Mine is probably the same.

“Okay okay okay, I’ll leave.”

Michael and I protest modestly. Or not. Neither of us want her here.

“Nope,” she says. “I know neither of you want me here.”

She’s way too good. My fists clench, and I shove them in between my legs. How embarrassed can one person be?

“Lights out?” she asks, literally skipping to the door and poising her wicked finger on the switch.

“No!” We shout so loud that it’s probably scary to our parents next door.

“But it worked so well before!”

“Exit this dwelling!” Michael orders.

And she does, to our relief. Lights on. But not before turning around and smirking at me triumphantly — “Told you. I’m always right.”

Now, after _that_ unwelcome interruption, I feel too awkward. I don’t know what to do at this point, so I turn to Michael for guidance.

And he kisses me again.

This one is harder, more forceful. More frustrated. I have now realized how wet kisses like this can be. And how deliciously pleasant. I swear, I’m about to pass out. I’m losing myself quickly, a wind roaring in my ears, my eyelids fluttering shut.

Wait a second. Frustrated, why frustrated?

Because this is what I’ve been waiting for. And he’s been waiting for this too. I know this as a fact now.

Why am I noticing so much about the way this constrains me?

I am feeling too warm. Blood is racing, uncontrolled, through my body. I want something more, and I know this is bad. I place my hands in between us, on his chest. I don’t want to push him away, and I find out I don’t need to; his warmth disappears instantly and the gap between us is much larger.

“I’m sorry. I had to.”

Is it just me, or is everyone really apologetic these days?

“I panicked.” My fingers find the hem of his collar and I brush my fingers on his collarbone, almost inadvertently. But it just feels _right_ to do at that very moment.

“I’m such an idiot.” His skin goes hot under my fingertips.

“No, you’re not. You really aren’t.” I wish I could reassure him somehow, and then I figure out a way. I pull him down towards me and press my lips to his. At first I plan it to be for just a moment, but I find it hard to pull away. So I don’t. But he does after a very long moment, burying his face in my hair. My ear leans on his chest, listening to the pump of his heartbeat, fast, but not racing like mine.

“What were you waiting for?” I choke.

“What do you mean?”

“What took you so long to do this?”

“To kiss you?”

I can’t speak, so I just nod.

“Well, I had to wait until you were sixteen. I couldn’t feel comfortable starting a relationship with a girl that was younger than sixteen.”

I smile, and then laugh. Wow. Nice answer. My parents would approve. “Have — have you done this before?”

“Honestly? Yes. But not like this.” He takes a deep breath in before saying the next four words. “Stephanie, I love you.”

I freeze at his tone of voice. He says it so surely, so confidently. The air is still, now that it’s out there. I almost swell with his words.

“I love you so much.” My voice is very firm, and I know it’s true. I do. And honestly, I always have. I guess I just didn’t realize it yet. Maybe it wasn’t like this, but it was bound to become more.

Michael puts his fingers under my chin, tilting my head up so our eyes meet. His intense gaze is drilling into me, burning through me. I don’t think he believes me, and the thought makes my heart pound. His eyes are so green, not like mine, but with more of an olive tinge. A stormy gray frames his pupils. His hand finds its way to my cheek, and he brushes his fingers lightly over my smattering of freckles.

There’s no air in my lungs. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe properly. His hand slides up my spine, leaving a trail of fire. He stops at my shoulder blades, rubbing my back with his palm. A smile flits on my lips, and I relax in his arms. “Hey,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I’m all comfy and stuff, and…I kind of don’t want to move.”

He laughs, a low, rumbling laugh that resonates through me. “I would never want you to.”

“I think I might go to sleep now.” A giggle bubbles from my throat.

“I don’t mind.” He squeezes me closer.

So I close my eyes and let sleep take me.

* * *

**Thursday, March 31 st**

Maria, the genius with directions, arranges the return car ride with Michael and I sitting next to each other. Now I’ll be subject to torture the whole ride. At this point I think we’re officially called a “couple,” so if I don’t feel comfortable kissing him or anything now, does that mean I’m trying to hide some details from my parents? I don’t hide much from them, so I feel stressed. I do well hiding my vexation through the ride, though.

* * *

“What, are you afraid your parents will find out?” Michael’s face is close to my ear.

“Your breath smells like chips.”

“That’s not the point. My question remains unanswered.”

“No! It’s just…yeah, you’re right.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“I don't know why I’m so worried!” I nibble my Cheetos, glad I have a substitute for my lip.

“Ugh, I’m bored.” He kicks a can lying on the sidewalk.

“Read one of the travel guides.”

“They’re boring.”

“Everything is boring to you.”

“You’re not boring to me,” he says and kisses me before I can turn away. I wish I could find the resolution in myself to resist, but I melt at his touch.

“We’re going to look like one of those weird teenagers that make out in public,” I tell him, hoping he doesn’t notice my red face. He probably does.

“And we don’t want to be judged by people who will never see us again.”

I look at Maria’s watch on my wrist. “It’s 12:22. Suffer a few more hours.” He smiles. “You’re so happy today.” My eyes find a strange attraction to his mouth, his lips curled and his teeth showing.

“I’m always happy,” he says.

“That’s what I like about you.”

“Only one of many of my charming qualities.”

“But especially today.”

He gives me a look and his lips purse. Then he turns away and nudges a dent in the dust with the toe of his sandal. At first I think it’s because he’s annoyed at me, and I try to apologize, but he says, “I’m just thinking. Wanna go to the car?” Before I can even answer his question, he walks away.

I rush to catch up to him. “Look, Michael—”

“It isn’t you,” he says, his eyes glued to the ground. “There’s something I want to tell you. I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be,” I say desperately, putting a hand on his shoulder. I expect him to shy away from me, but instead he wraps an arm around my waist, and taps his fingers on my shirt.

When we climb into the car, I sit facing him, and his eyes capture mine like captives. “Stephanie,” he says, using my full name, which always unsettles me when he does it, “The reason why I’m _uncharacteristically_ happy today is because I can look at you and…you know, I’ve had this thing for you for a while, but now I can act on it. Do you know what I mean? I’ve been waiting to tell you _forever_ , but I was scared. Like, you were always scornful about the other girls dating guys at school and you never so much as glanced at anyone, so I didn’t know what you were looking for, what you wanted. So now it just feels different because you’d know exactly my intentions for anything I tried to do. It’s like sudden freedom or something. I feel like I have to catch up on everything I’ve missed out on for so long. And I really _want_ you, and I am so angry at myself that I was a coward, and I let go of the chance I had to be with you longer. Because every second with you is perfect, and I want it to be that way with us for as long as possible.”

My mouth parts, and I can’t even breathe so I just reach forward and hold his hand. His fingers lace into mine. “You know I love you,” I finally manage to say. “That’s a given now.”

“Now?” He raises his eyebrows and sighs. “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t know if I’m good enough for you. What I’ve been doing wrong all these years so that I would be invisible to you.”

I almost laugh out loud. “ _Good_ enough? How could you _not_ be good enough? You’re so…so _perfect_ , but I just didn’t see it. You weren’t invisible, you were just like a brother to me, and I never imagined anyone liking me that way so I never considered you would. It isn’t like I’m _attractive_ , but you are. You’re very good-looking,” and my face flames so much but I’m glad I’ve finally said it to him, “and you’re so kind and sweet and understanding and—”

He interrupts me with a kiss, murmuring to me that he loves me, and I wait for him to pause or slow down but he doesn’t, and I just absorb it all. After the longest while, I pull away just to laugh, and I don’t even know why. I just laugh and laugh and laugh, my head thrown back, looking up at the car ceiling. Michael doesn’t say a word, but he smiles, and his eyes flicker over me like he’s never seen me before.

“What’s so funny?” he asks softly.

“I’m just…I feel so _weightless_. Right now, when I’m right here with you. I could caress the stars.” I look at him when I say this.

His eyes shine. “I’m so glad I could give that to you,” he whispers. Then a glint appears in his eye. “Like you’re on drugs.”

I gasp and slap him playfully. “Oh gosh, _drugs_?” and I crack up again.

He stares at me. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks suddenly.

A giggle dies in my throat. “No, I’m not,” I answer immediately, as if by habit.

“Yes, you are.” He moves his hand to my jaw, and I freeze. “I get the feeling you don’t know that. Anyone who tells you otherwise is jealous.”

“I know I’m not _ugly_ , but I wouldn’t call myself _beautiful_. That would be too much of an overstatement.”

“No. Everything about you…your freckles,” and he brushes his fingers over my nose. “…your green eyes and the way they sparkle, your hair and the way it shines…” At this he runs his hands through my hair. “And your smile and the way it’s so shy and tentative as if you’re afraid to show your teeth even though they’re so white…everything is perfect for you.”

I flush. “I have a mirror, Michael, all this is a lie.”

He pulls me into another kiss without answering. Soon, I feel my back pressed to the car door and I know we should stop but I don’t want to, and I’m burning up from his fire. We keep kissing until we hear the click of car doors being unlocked. We leap away from each other and buckle our seat belts as my family climbs in. We make catch-up small talk, and only when we get back on the road does Maria say, “You know we were watching you, right?”

I tense up. “What?”

“Honey, there’s nothing to hide,” my mother says in the nicest voice. That’s when I know I’m doomed.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been there too,” Dad says with a laugh.

I literally have to put effort into resisting the urge to turn to Michael, but that will just attract attention. Instead, I sit there as a blushing, bumbling mess.

“Well, that makes things easy,” Michael says, links his arms around me, and kisses my cheek. I can still feel it long after he’s gone.

“We wouldn’t want anyone different for our daughter,” Mom says, smiling.

“I told them they were perfect together!” Maria cries. She reaches over Michael and hits me with the map she’s holding. “Steph didn’t believe me!”

“You didn’t?” Michael asks incredulously, and that’s when I gather the courage to look at him. He winks and sticks his tongue out at me.

“I d — I mean, I wa—” I stutter and sigh.

“Hey, Dad?” Maria leans forward and taps his shoulder. “Will you get mad if I tell you this?”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, we just missed our exit.”

“Oh. That’s fine. I’ll just take the next U-Turn.”

“You passed that too.”

He sighs. “Look. Your mother and I were planning another surprise. We’re taking you to the ocean.”

“The ocean?" That’s me.

“Yes.”

“Wow, that’s great!" I’m so happy. I love the ocean — the perfect amount of salt in the air, the lovely breeze that runs through your hair, the sunlight making the water look like millions of sparkling jewels. When I am hit with a wave of sleepiness, I shut my eyes, daydreaming about the ocean.

* * *

I do not see what happens next, but I feel it.

I hear the clicking of the turning signal.

Dad shouts and the car horn honks loudly.

The car lurches to the left, making a sharp turn.

I instantaneously, precariously, shift with the movement.

The leg that holds me upright collapses, feeling useless under me.

My seatbelt is of no use now.

My head smashes into the car door on my left, the curve that secures the window crashing into my shoulder, and my neck twists.

Nothing hurts at first, because of the terrifying shock-induced numbness, but then the pain kicks in.

It is unbearable.

It stings like lava, ripping at me, tearing through me.

I hear screams, the squeal of brakes, the crunching of metal, the shatter of glass, the thump of something heavy hitting something hard.

I barely manage to add my scream to the mix.

Something heavy is crushing me.

I attempt to intake breath, but nothing happens.

There is a cold, unrelentless fist squeezing my lungs, stealing away oxygen.

I fly forward, my face mangled by inertia because of the seat in front of me.

I am limp, leaning against it.

I have no strength to move back.

Something moist fills my mouth, metallic and sour, and I recognize it as a mix of blood and bile.

This whole time, my eyes are closed. All I can see is the dark behind my eyelids, but even that is blurry and vague.

We are flying, and then we are motionless and silent.

That is all I can remember, because then my brain shuts off to conserve the broken rest of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where it says "Scene 11," I meant to put "Scene II," as in "Scene Two." :)


	5. Lights

**Friday, April 1 st**

who is this voice

don’t recognize it

person talking

no

another one

 _people_ talking

what are they going to do?

if they’re trying to hurt me

there’s nothing i can do

can’t move at all

wait a second

they’re pulling me out

hear murmurs

soon they become

comprehensible words

“comeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeon”

over and over again

a man

speech muffled

commanding and enraged

as if he’s going to hit something if he doesn’t get what he wants

what does he want?

he wants me to wake up

wake up

feel hand on hair

“she’s so pretty”

a girl

words are

beautiful

light and yearning

voice is muffled too

talking about herself?

_how vain_

smile

smile attempt

mouth won't move

figure it out

talking about _me_

pretty?

lips tingle

memory trying to

call

to

me

can’t hear

only one thought in my mind

wake up

 _need_ to wake up

for her

and the man

called me pretty

“her heartbeat is getting faster”

woman is loud about this

hear

crash

knocks something heavy to the

floor

man doesn’t notice

or just

doesn’t

care

“she has to wake up”

man says

voice hard and determined

“others didn’t”

what does he mean

“she looks too young for

something

like

this

to happen to her”

woman says

want to tell her

it’s okay

“oh

my goodness

she’s responding"

woman

so loud

rushes over

and

eyes flutter open.

I try to speak, but only succeed in making a weak gurgling sound.

My vision is fuzzy, and I can only detect the outlines of their bodies. Focusing in on one of the figures, I see the woman — curly brown hair covered by a hairnet and sparkling brown eyes eagerly gripping my attention, with a surgical mask concealing her mouth and nose. She is wearing a long white coat over a white shirt and white pants. With her lovely, gentle features, she looks like an angel.

I would think I was dead if I couldn’t see the room I’m in, or her face.

It’s a hospital room.

These two people are doctors.

“Honey, can you see me?” she says. Her voice is muffled by the surgical mask.

I push through the wall in my throat with all my might and choke out a yes.

She takes a deep breath in, and her chest rises. “That’s perfect. How are you feeling, honey?”

I groan and try to tell her, but my voice doesn’t work. The female doctor panics when I don’t answer. “Where does it hurt? Sweetie, please tell me.” When I close my eyes to zone in onto the location of the pain, she yells, “Don’t!” She sees she’s startled me and whispers, “Oh, honey, please don’t do that. Make sure you keep your eyes open, okay? Look at me.” When I manage to lock eyes with her, she says, “You have to make sure you always look at me like this. I need to know if you can hear or see me, okay, honey?”

Is she scared for me?

“Okay.” I cough, and find I can’t stop. I don’t even know what I’m coughing out of my throat, but I just keep coughing because something in me tells me I can’t stop, if I stop, I won’t be able to breathe. Phlegm and blood dribbles from the corner of my mouth. The male doctor grabs a napkin out of nowhere and wipes it away, his plastic-glove-covered hand trembling. The girl presses a hand to my ribs, and I shout.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she cries, but in her guarded eyes is knowledge. She did that intentionally. This is how she will find the location of my insurmountable pain. “Do you know where it hurts?”

I wave my hands. I hope she realizes I’m trying to explain my whole body aches. As if on cue, a phantom pain shoots through my right thigh, stinging especially bad at my knee. I shout and grip my leg. My screams are so loud and piercing I scare myself, as if the pain will lessen if it is released through my throat. The room is filled with my inhuman shrieks.

“My God, are you okay?” the female doctor falters.

The pain stops as quickly as it had started. I am panting, my cheeks are flushed, and I want to pass out.

“Which leg was that?" It’s the male voice.

I turn to him, but not without effort. Over his jet black, rectangular glasses, he peers at me. He doesn’t seem as nice as the woman, but I don’t care. He’s working hard to keep me okay, and I feel grateful.

“L…left.” It’s so hard to speak. Unbelievably hard. And I don’t remember things easily right now. I attempt to recognize every single thing I can immediately feel.

_I am lying on my back. It hurts. So does my neck. There’s a vein pulsing in there. My head is pounding. My teeth feel glued to each other. My jaw is locked. My arms are outstretched. The palms are facing up. Something is connected to my right arm. A needle of some sort. I am breathing. Even though it’s hard. That is a good sign._

“What else?”

I direct all my energy to move the arm that isn’t paralyzed. I finally get it off the bed and thrust it up to my neck and slide it to my shoulder. “Back…too,” I choke, the two words sapping me of strength.

His dark eyes harden and he fits his fingers to his chin in a pondering pose. “The left side of your body, basically?”

I nod. I feel so tired. The room starts to spin, colors melding together until I can’t see the people in it with me and everything turns gray in front of my eyes, and then darkness.

“Casey! She’s out,” the man says, his voice filled to the brim with controlled panic. A hand rests on my forehead, cool and covered in plastic. I don’t think it’s him.

“She’s very hot,” says the woman, whose name I now know is Casey. “Let her rest, Aidan. Watch the heart monitor. Make sure the fluid doesn’t stop pumping.”

“Got it,” Aidan says, and knowing I’m in good hands, I let myself rest.

* * *

 

**Saturday, April 2 nd**

I open my eyes to see the female doctor looming over me, and an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu washes over me. My chest rises and falls. I’m surprised I can breathe so easily after the difficulty I had with this act earlier. There is still a sting, but it is dimmer to my senses. In fact, now that I think about it, my pain feels muted. Controlled. Dampened. So much better. I feel better. It’s so relieving.

“Sweetie, how are you?” Casey asks. That was her name. Casey.

“Better.” My voice isn’t exactly perfect, but I can talk without too much energy directed to the task, although my tongue is thick in my mouth and my cheeks feel swollen. I moan and try to raise my hands to wipe the fatigue from my heavy eyelids, but one is still hooked to a machine I won’t bother to look at. The other feels unmovable. So heavy. I yawn loudly.

But I can feel the fatigue falling away from me. I shake my head to clear it. “I think I’m fine.” I feel funny, though. Not like myself. Like a phantom of myself.

“Just close your eyes, sweetie. If you’re tired, you can still sleep.”

I shake my head. “I need to stay awake.” My tongue wriggles in my mouth to form these words.

“Whatever you say, love.” When Casey takes a hold of my wrist for a pulse, I can feel the slight resistance of her plastic gloves. “Is everything okay, in this very second?” I nod. She taps my wrist. “Can you feel this?”

“Yes.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“No. I feel…stamped.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice is so nice, soft and gentle, with an underlying brightness. Calm crawls through me. I can answer, and she would know what I was talking about.

“The spectrum has grown smaller. The extremes aren’t extreme anymore, they’re normalized.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand. Tell me more.”

“The spectrum of feelings? Of pain? Like a light spectrum chart or something. Instead of it starting at red and ending at purple, it starts more at yellow and ends at turquoise. It’s concentrated in the middle. Before, I was at purple — this blinding agony. Now I’m at green.” I don’t know how I’m suddenly able to recall all this and tell her, but it makes perfect sense. At least to me.

Her eyes light up, as if rays of light had found her way there and are illuminating her brown irises. “I’ve never heard of it described that way. You are such a smart young woman.”

“Never heard of what described that way?”

“Well, I’d—” A _beep beep beep_ interrupts her. She turns to a speaker above my head and presses a button. “Nurse Maurey, room 104.”

Static is a white noise that frames the voice of the person that replies. “Doctor Bayford, assistance in room 216.”

“Okay, hold on a second, Phil.” Casey turns to me. “Stephanie, if I left right now, would you need anything from me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you have any problems, press this button.” She points to a red button on a remote that she thrusts in my hand. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch her leave. I close my eyes. I try to remember.

What am I trying to remember?

Okay, backtracking. Casey here with me, falling asleep, waking up seeing Casey and Aidan, blacking out…

…what happened before?

Unfazed by sleep now, I glance around the room. White walls, pale blue curtains, a huge machine next to my bed. What is it? I focus onto it. Jagged lines cross it. There is a number next to the lines. 121. Something about this is familiar.

Heart monitor. This machine is a heart monitor.

And the number? Is that normal? If I could think straighter, I would know.

School.

The word pops up in my mind, but I don’t make the connection between this strange six-letter word and its definition. I rack my brain painstakingly to fill the gaps in my brain. After a while, I give up on this and instead stare at the hypnotic drip of a clear liquid in a plastic tube connected to my arm.

What’s going on?

It comes back slowly. And by slowly, I mean that it takes me full minutes to think about it.

What happened before? What am I forgetting? _Who_ am I forgetting?

Something on my body must make me remember. A fleeting recognition slowly trickles through me. That is when I look down at my arm. The bone of my left wrist juts out in a different position than it should be. A band of shadow wraps around this wrist. Charred skin, an olive brown. The rest of my arm is white, unoxygenated. What would have caused this blemish?

A tearing gasp shudders through me when I realize it.

A watch.

Given to me by none other than my sister.

Another question appears in my mind.

How _could_ I forget this?

I missed my sister’s birthday.

My sister.

I press the button on the remote.

It takes Casey and Aidan less than a minute to burst through the door. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“My family.” I don’t want any bull here.

They practically screech to a stop. Casey purses her lips, and Aidan frowns. “Is something actually amiss?” he asks.

“Yes. I don’t know what’s happened to my parents. And my sister.” They are trying to stall. Realization flares through me. “Tell me what’s happened!”

“I need to go. I can’t handle this.” Jason spits harshly, marching out and slamming the door behind him.

Casey stares after him. “I can’t _believe_ him!” she shouts, punching the mattress in frustration. I haven’t seen her so distressed. When she turns back to me, her eyes are filled with tears. She walks over to my bedside and caresses my cheek. “Sweetheart…” and she chokes on a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

My gut twists, and I feel ready to throw up. She doesn’t need to say it. I already know. I knew. Somehow.

But she says it anyway.

“Stephanie, your father and sister are dead. Your mother is sleeping; she is in a coma. We don’t know if she’s going to wake up. You’re the most fortunate of all of them.”

I don’t hear anything. I can’t feel anything.

Oh, God.

Dad.

Maria.

And Mom.

Barely holding on.  


I don’t feel like this is real. A few fleeting seconds pass, although they feel like years. I am still here, but I am not here. There is no world without these people in it.

My soul slowly floats out of my body, or so it feels, and it’s lost, not knowing where it should go. It watches as the empty pile of skin and bones in its hospital bed closes its eyes heavily, as if it wants to wish this horrible news away. There are no tears. There is too much shock for tears. There is a choke, echoing from the hollow chest of this thing, barely human anymore. It wants to cry, it knows it should, but it can’t. It’s completely dried out.

“Stephanie, I’m so sorry. So, so, so, so, so sorry. I wish I could do something.” Casey wipes tears from her eyes. “Talk to me, please. Say anything. I hate to tell you this.”

I glue my eyes to hers. “I’m…so…sad…” I whisper.

She withers. “I know. You must be.”

“I don’t really…believe it…even though…I know…it’s true.”

Her face twists, and she shakes her head. “Is there any way I can help, somehow?”

I knew this would happen. When Casey and Aidan seemed reluctant to tell me, I knew. I knew. I knew.

* * *

**Tuesday, April 5 th**

Three days later, Aidan comes back and apologizes to me. Tells me how heartless he was. How he couldn’t take seeing someone so young get told of the fate of her father and sister.

I try to tell him I’m not a baby. I’m sixteen.

And then he tells me that my mother is dead.

 

No.

Not my mother too.

I needed someone of my blood to hold on to.

I had rested in peace in my mother’s stomach for nine months, developing into a person. I could have rested in the arms that cradled me at birth, cried onto the shoulder of the person for whom I’d done so countless times before.

Now my family’s blood is spilled, soaking in the earth forever.

My whole family, wiped out in a few seconds. Erased. The horror of technology and the horrors it does.

This is when I realize it’s all real. It isn’t a sick nightmare or a game.

Just like that, everything I’ve known for the last sixteen years is taken from me.

* * *

**April**

Recovery is slow. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. When you have nothing to do for hours at a time, staring at a blank, black screen, time blurs and fades, losing all meaning. There is no point in time any more. The doctors said I would be out in a little while, but it hasn’t happened yet, and I’m glad. They want me to stay until my broken leg heals and I can walk without a cast.

That’s it. My only scars are the one they cut in my thigh to replace the shattered bone with metal, and where they ripped me open at the shoulder, down my spine, and swirling to my neck.

It looks like a swollen red tattoo on my back, a river of death.

My ribs were broken in the crash, crushing my lungs. They were somehow able to fix this. I still feel a pierce when I take too large a breath of air, but at least I can still breathe. I am unfairly fortunate. They also needed to take the car metal out of my body and replace it with a different kind of metal — hospital metal, tested metal, metal that will heal, not harm. To realign my shoulder, straighten my neck, and piece my spinal cord back together. I still can’t turn my head without my neck pricking, shrug without a vampire-bite sting, slouch without a burn, or walk normally; I have a zombie limp now. I feel like a cyborg.

All this will heal eventually.

But I don’t think my face and body will any time soon. My own reflection makes me think I will never get better. My unwillingness to heal myself through optimism (the doctors say, “Laughter is the best medicine!” but it feels like mockery) shows in my face. The first time I look into a mirror after the crash, I am scared at how haggard I look. My nose was also broken when I fell into the driver’s car seat, but I don’t care about that. That’s the least of my problems. My nose was crooked before the crash anyway; I think it being broken now ended up being straighter.

I have huge, purple bags under my bloodshot eyes, pronouncing my sunken-in features and protruding cheekbones. My eyes used to be brighter, but now the irises are dull and deadened. My face is thin and pallid. My wan skin is snaked with veins that pop out of my body as if they want to escape, none of my previous tan evident. It is so, so white, like brittle paper. My figure has gone from slim and fit from exercise to anorexic from insomnia and refusal to eat.

Healthy people don’t know what this is like. When you aren’t sick, you don’t realize how difficult it is to do everyday things like walk or carry objects. You are invincible, all-powerful. You can do anything. You see someone having trouble opening a jar of jelly or something, and you think, _They’re so weak. I could do that easily._ So you offer to help. If you succeed in taking the cap off, you have the upper hand. If you fail, you automatically think, _Something was wrong with that jar anyway._ Like the Aesop fable about the fox and the grapes.

But when your strength taken away, you find it all out, the hard way.

I once saw a show conducting experiments on this theory. The makers of the show superglued the cap of a bottle of water. Then they hired a stunningly attractive woman to walk around asking men to open the bottle for them. All of the men wanted to impress this woman with their strength, but of course they couldn’t open that bottle. It was quite funny, the methods they desperately used: jamming it onto a door, smashing it against trash cans, anything they could think of. In the end they were told of the study.

What this told me was how snobby and selfish humans are as a species. First of all, the men were so full of themselves that they thought they could do what this woman couldn’t? And they helped her because she was beautiful? That aspect was depressing. But it also told me that they never thought of the fact that maybe the reason the woman wasn’t able to open the bottle was because it wasn’t able to be opened. They just looked at it and they immediately thought they could open it.

Underestimation. Underappreciation. That will be the downfall of humanity eventually.

* * *

It doesn’t take me long to figure out a definitive fact of my life — I’ll never get over this.

My family is dead. How can I live without them? I still don’t understand. How could I expect this to happen? I have no life if they’re not in it. I can’t even breathe without thinking about the fact that the rest of my family doesn’t have that ability anymore.

Even though I try to will myself to be strong, I don’t feel like it. I want to wallow in my sorrow, my pain, my loss. I want to see anyone besides Casey and Aidan, and some other attendants that give me food, and news from the outside world. I want to see my family. I don’t want to leave. Honestly, I want to die here.

The messenger nurses tell me the funerals will be arranged by me, whenever I am healthy enough to get out of the hospital. When I ask how far away that time will be, they always change the subject.

Sometimes I’m so angry I fantasize about wrenching my beating heart from my chest, holding it in a tightened fist, the blood dripping between my fingers. And I’d squeeze until its constant throb would cease. Then I’d see my family again, wherever they might be.

Wouldn’t that be nice? If only it were that easy.

I’m tearing apart like sheets in a paper shredder, torn into insignificant little pieces. The best I can do is claw at myself, ripping my skin off of my body just to feel how much it hurts. My arms are dotted with little arcs where my nails wrecked havoc there. My face is hollow because the dried tears on my cheeks have peeled away my skin cells. I feel like crap, to say the least.

Thank God I don’t have visitors. Honestly, who would visit me? I had no friends at Hillstone High. No family members live in this area. And I don’t think anyone _could_ visit me even if they wanted to. Which no one does.

I want to see my family. I _need_ to see my family.

Everywhere I look, at the blank white walls of my hospital room, I see the faces of the dead. They can’t be dead, something in me screams, but they are. And I’m not.

Nightmares torment me for these days. Evil wraiths crawl into my mind and completely destroy me. My childish fear of the dark has turned into a phobia — nyctophobia. I haven’t gotten a full night of sleep since…that night before.

The only reason I have for living is that, whenever I get better, _if_ I get better, I’ll get to see Michael.

When I found out Michael was still alive, I lost it. I broke down in tears and couldn’t breathe, my chest felt so heavy and leaden. Casey wrapped her arms around me, actually crying with me. I was so grateful to her in that moment.

Michael is recovering even slower than I am, and the nurses say I’ll get to visit him in a few days. It’s always a few days. I ache to see him, and I hope he wants to see me too. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I try to quench my longing, but it rises up in me like a tide.

Aidan, Casey, and the nurses recommend therapy and counseling, which sounds horrible. Yes, I know I need it. Suicidal thoughts aren’t a good sign. But from all the books I’ve read about people in my situation, it isn’t fun. Of course, nothing’s ever going to be _fun_ anymore. The spontaneous trip to the ocean was supposed to be _fun_ , but look where that ended up.

They don’t care. I’m surprised they even bother to keep me locked up in this hospital when they must have some other patients to take care of, but they convince me not to worry, and tell me as an excuse that in my deceased parents’ bank account is enough money to pay for my pricey medical expenses. Where this money came from, I don’t know. Life support? A secret treasure chest? I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s keeping me alive.

To cure me, or at least _try_ to cure me, they have brought in a therapist named Mrs. Bloom. She is old, with lines of make-up stretching her taut face. She is heavyset and walks as if every step is a task. She wears a crisp suit and holds a notebook. I expect her to be annoying and prissy, and that’s exactly what she is. Fake, forced smiles all around. I think I get worse just seeing her two hours a day for the month I’m here.

* * *

**Tuesday, April 19 th**

I am watching TV, the evening news.

That may not sound like a big deal, but I almost break into a million pieces when the evening news comes on.

The headline: **Three Casualties In Car Crash, Three Exits of Highway Closed for Hours**.

When I see the news _report_ , I can’t take it. I can’t.

“Breaking news: three people are left dead in a car crash on an exit of Interstate 80. Tell us more, Jeff.”

“Thanks, Larry. Witnesses call it a tragedy, and send their condolences to the family.”

“I didn’t see da accident,” says a burly man appearing on the screen. “I heard da noise doh, it was loud and crunchy! So I drove ovah to da scene to see what had happened.”

“Did it seem as horrible an accident on impact as it became?” asks a news reporter, anxiously holding her microphone out for a reply, after quickly glancing at the camera. Her fake look of concern makes me want to heave.

“Yes,” he grunts. “It was a big noise, but I didn’t dink no one was gon die like dat!”

“Will you ever forget what you saw that day?”

“No, nevah. I hope da rest of dem suh-vah-vuhs gon be OK.”

“Friends describe the family as a caring, outgoing group of inspiring people,” Jeff continues at the studio.

The scene changes, to a hysterical woman, unable to control her crazed weeping. I recognize her as one of Dad’s coworkers. She’d been over to our house many times before, always giving Maria and I gifts whenever she came. She is so sweet. Her name is Denisha.

“I still can’t believe it,” Denisha coughs. “Scott was such a nice person. He worked hard to support his beautiful family. This shouldn’t have happened to them." She starts to bawl again. The interviewer lady puts a “comforting” hand on her shoulder.

“As you can see,” she narrates to the camera, “people are distressed at the news of this tragedy.”

“Yes, Dawn." Viewers are showed the studio, where Jeff is given back the majority of the story. “The two in the hospital are missed at their school, Hillstone High.”

The scene changes again, and of all people, I see Vanessa Rowan and Chloë Adams, showing off their blinding smiles at the camera.

“We miss Michael so much!” Vanessa crows. “And Stephanie.”

“We can’t, like, believe what, like, happened!” Chloë chirps. “We hope they, like, get, like, better!”

Yeah, right. They probably would be glad to hear that I had died here, my bones rotting in a black body bag.

The camera flashes back to the studio. “The Hawthorne family, owning a black 2004 Nissan Sentra in their hometown of Hillstone, was taking a vacation when, taking Interstate 80, they collided with a white minivan. This vehicle was driven by Bianca and Benjamin Silverado, with their child in the backseat. Sources tell us the Hawthornes were planning to return from their trip, which was taken for the youngest daughter, Maria. Her fifteenth birthday would have been the first of April.”

A picture of our family, with my sister in the limelight, pops up on screen. Huge smiles light up our faces, and I recall where this was taken — a visit to the Golden Gate Bridge we took last summer. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, just seeing a picture of my family I’ll never see in flesh and bone again.

“Her father, Scott Hawthorne, was an accountant. His coworkers call him hardworking and a strong environment booster. His wife, Bernicia, was a stay-at-home mother, but cared diligently for her children.”

_How does the news find this information?_

“The Silverados also perished in the crash. They leave behind their two-year-old son, Jesus, to live by their legacy.” A picture of two happy parents, also with bright smiles, appears on the screen. They are holding their baby proudly in their arms. I gasp. I never realized anyone else could’ve gotten affected by this crash, although I should’ve known. Too quickly, the broadcast changes from the subject.

“The Hawthorne family was also holding a family friend, Michael Hawke, in their car.” My jaw tightens when I hear his name. “He, along with the second Hawthorne daughter, Stephanie, are in critical condition.” My stomach churns at these words.

“For more information on how this crash will affect afternoon rush hour, let’s check with Bill on traffic.”

“Thanks, Lou,” I hear him say, and I start to sob.

* * *

**Wednesday, April 20 th**

Today is a seemingly dull, average afternoon. I am lying on my back with my newly repaired and cast-free leg hanging above me, when one of my nurses, Anna, walks into my hospital room. Usually I prefer to be alone, but today, I welcome her. I am lonely, and quiet, compassionate Anna is just who I want to confide in. She is pretty, in a simple, natural way. None of her features stand out as particularly beautiful, but her looks are endearing. She has short brown hair cut at chin level, brown eyes hidden by her glaring oval glasses, and an elegant presence.

“Hello,” she greets me cautiously. She seems afraid, as if unsure how to talk to me. I must look tired, or disagreeable. Or maybe I don’t _look_ that way, but I _seem_ that way. How I usually am.

“Hi, Anna." My mouth twists in an unfamiliar expression — a weak smile. I can see her relax — her shoulders loosen up and she returns it.

“I’m glad you’re happy today, Stephanie, because I have good news!”

The exclamation point at the end of her sentence makes my heart leap into my throat. Anna realizes I can’t bring myself to speak when I wordlessly prompt her to say more.

“Michael’s going to be able to see you at six o’clock tonight. His nurses have decided he’s well enough to be visited, and that’s the earliest you can. I understand you want to see him very badly. We wanted to let you know. He’s eager to see you, too. He’s asked us so many times when he could.”

My heart stops at the period in her first sentence, and barely hear what she says next.

I get to see Michael? “I can really visit him?”

“Why would I lie to you?” Anna replies. I seriously think it’s a genuine question.

“I don’t know." I feel lightheaded.

“Do you want me to walk you there?”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks, though." I suck in a breath, hoping I don’t sound too excited, or anything besides natural. “What time is it?”

She looks at the watch on her wrist. The breath in my lungs escapes when I think about Maria and her birthday gift for me, only a little more than two months ago. Closing my eyes, I wait for Anna’s answer.

“It’s 4:19.”

* * *

I feel like running through the hospital hallways, but I have to settle with speedwalking. I stop myself to check the time on a clock I’ve whizzed past.

5:36. I’ve convinced my attendants to let me out really early. I don’t mind waiting at Michael’s door for a long time, as long as I can see him at six o’clock sharp.

I try to rush, but my leg the doctors have fixed up still hurts, and I feel like a zombie dragging a hopeless leg getting to Michael’s room. I wish I could wear something a bit fancy, or at least more appealing, but the most the doctors will allow me to wear is a drab gray t-shirt and equally drab skinny jeans.

My heart feels like a hammer in my chest. I don’t know what to expect. How will Michael feel to see me? What will I say? I have so much to tell him, so much to ask.

I discover the only way to reach the fourth floor, besides the stairs, is the precariously raggedy, old-looking elevator. If my leg wasn’t as useless as it is, or if this was before the crash, I would’ve absolutely used the stairs. I’m on every sports team available in our school, have won MVP on almost all of those, and love sports.

Now, I have no choice.

Hoping the elevator can handle a one-hundred-thirty pound person, I step in. Pressing the fourth floor button doesn’t do anything, so I kick the wall. Surprisingly, that is what spurs the thing to work for me.

However, the elevator goes down. _This is hopeless_ , I think for a second, before the doors open on the ground level floor and I see a young, pregnant woman standing in front of me. Her short brown hair bobs as she hobbles into the elevator.

As she bends to press the button of the floor she wants to visit, she groans loudly, and I suddenly feel awkward.

“Are you okay?” I ask timidly.

“Yes,” she grunts. “Just the baby." She pats her stomach tenderly.

“What level do you need to get to?” I ask, moving towards the buttons.

“It is fine. I needed to get to the 4th floor, too.”

The elevator trudges up, and then it stops. I look at the glowing lights at the top of the door, displaying where we are, and they turn off. At first, I brush it off, but when we don’t move after a few long seconds, I start getting a bit worried.

“What is this?” the woman says calmly.

“Is the elevator malfunctioning?" I ask like a little child.

“I think so." She glances at the emergency phone and picks it up.

“Yes.” *long pause* “We are stuck in an elevator.” *long pause* “I am pregnant, and there is a teen here with me.” *long pause* “I do not.” *long pause* “Older, maybe seventeen, eighteen? Maybe even nineteen? I will ask her." She turns to me, cupping her hand over the phone. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen." Do I look that old? I feel so privileged to be given such a compliment.

Her eyes flicker with surprise, but she relays my age to the person on the other end of the phone. After another long pause, she asks me, “Are you feeling alright? You are okay staying in here for a while?" I nod. “She will be fine.” *long pause* “I do not think so. Neither of us." She inquires a bit more — “Okay, there are a lot of questions. Here we go — Are you visiting someone, a patient here, or just doing something casual like going to the bathroom?”

“I’m visiting someone and I’m a patient here.”

“What is your name and room number?”

“Stephanie Hawthorne, room 104.”

“What floor is their room on? Oh, wait — floor number four, right?" I nod.

She tells the operator that and soon hangs up.

“We are going to be here for a while,” she says.

There’s an awkward silence, and I can tell we both feel an obligation to shatter it.

“Umm, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you visiting?" Quickly discovering my error, I fix my question. “Are you visiting someone?”

She smiles. “Yes, my mother. She has had some heart problems.”

“Oh." I want to say why I’m here too. “I’m visiting my friend." I’m not sure whether _boy-_ would be a necessary prefix for that sentence. Then I think of the woman, and the fact that she told me why her mom was at the hospital, and I say, “There was a car crash…" I seriously can’t finish the sentence, and my voice falters.

“That is terrible!" I’m surprised at what she does next — wrap her hands around me, her cheek on my head. “What a terrible thing! Is he or she okay?”

“I don’t know yet." I swallow the rock in my throat. “It’s driving me crazy, you know, the wait? I haven’t seen him for so long.”

“Was it, by any chance, the crash on the news?” the woman asks cautiously. I nod. “Your whole family died?”

I flinch, hearing her say this. When I look up at her face, she looks like she wishes she could take back her words. “Yes.” It seems like a confirmation of what I still can’t believe.

“Oh, dear,” she says, rocking me. “I wish you the best blessings from now on. May God heal your heart, soul, and spirit." She continues saying things like this, about how God will help me enjoy life, how Jesus will show me the light. When she’s done, I ask her if she goes to the fancy church downtown to pray for her mom. That one even has televised sermons. I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m interested.

“Yes. My family is very religious. We live far away from that church, and my mother makes sure I know all the commandments and live by them. I try spreading God’s word whenever I can, especially to young people like you. Too often, they forget that God always watches, that he is always there for you. But I can tell you are a nice girl.”

“Thank you so much, ma’am.”

“Call me Heidi. Do you want a piece of gum?” she offers out of the blue.

“Sure." She hands me a piece of bubblegum, and as I chew it, taking my mind off my troubles, I feel even less down in the dumps.

“Gum makes me feel better, too,” Heidi says.

By the time we’re out of the elevator, I already know basically everything about her life — for beginners, her mother, Rena Schultz, is a piano teacher. When I told her I played, she got all excited and asked me how good I was. I promised her I would show her some of my skills and maybe even get some lessons. She also knows her unborn baby (a girl) will be named Renée, after her mother. I also vow I’ll visit her mother in the hospital as soon as I can.

* * *

 

When I finally reach Michael’s hospital room, number 413, _of course_ someone’s in there. The assistant outside tell me it’s his parents.

I take a seat on the floor next to the door, sliding down so my back leans on the wall, covering my face. I feel defeated, as if this is my last straw.

“It’s okay,” the woman comforts me. “You’ll get to see him. I’ll make sure of that.”

“It’s just…" I don’t want to seem weak or infatuated. “I’ve been waiting so long to see him." My fingers curl into fists, and I find myself chewing the gum still in my mouth harder than usual.

“I know.” She pauses. “He wants to see you terribly.”

“I don’t know if he still, you know, if he still likes me. That’s what I’m going to ask him about today. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” I don’t know why I’m telling her, but I feel so fragile.

She opens her mouth to say something, but we are interrupted by muffled and unintelligible shouts inside Michael’s hospital room. If these weren’t top-notch walls, we would be able to hear them clearly, but because of the strict customer appreciation rules of this hospital, they are practically soundproof.

“Is he okay?” the nurse says, jumping up. “Should I check?”

“I don’t know.” I look at my shoes, feeling foolish.

She starts talking to herself. “Maybe, but he’s talking to his parents. Something could really be going on! I’ll go in." She opens the door and sticks her head inside. “Everything okay?" I can’t hear the reply. “‘Kay." She gets out, closes the door, and tells me, “They’re fine, apparently. Michael is good.”

I only have to wait about a minute before Michael’s parents leave. As they walk past me, they skewer me with glares. I don’t know why, but it gives me a bad feeling about today. I reconsider going inside. I take a moment to think while going to the trash can and throwing away my gum, but I still don’t know how to make up my mind. The nurse sees my hesitation, and she gently asks me what I’ll do.

I think for a little bit, almost as an excuse to stay longer outside Michael’s hospital room, but I know deep down what I want.

My hands shaking as I turn the doorknob, I walk inside.


	6. Remedy

**April**

I am going to die.

I can feel it in my weak bones that refuse to move at my will. In the muscles that won’t move, won’t pick up anything more than five pounds. In the fact that I can’t even stand up — sit up — without a nurse slinging her arm over my shoulders to steady me. I hate being bedridden. I need to move. I _always_ move, because of my hyperactivity. But I can’t get out of this bed, no matter how much I want to, no matter how hard I try.

I’m definitely not the worst off, though.

I can’t believe Stephanie’s family is dead.

Scott, her father, who always had something intelligent to say. He had so many stories. He had such light in his eyes when he saw me, like I was the son he never had. So good at conversation too. He should have been a professor. I’m sure any student would listen to what he had to say if he was lecturing them, just by the eager tone of his voice, engaging me in each word like a hook.

Bernicia, her mother, who was so eager to please. So hardworking, never sitting down to talk. Instead, she would be bustling around giving me snacks, smiling in that shy way of hers. She’d always ask if I needed anything. And I didn’t see her once settle down to take care of herself. But she cared for her children and I so well.

And Maria. The firecracker sister. She loved talking, but she was a perfect listener too. She had such compassion and empathy. And the best jokes in the world. She brightened my day, all the time. She had a huge smile, lighting up the room.

It’s difficult to refer to them all in past tense.

I’m glad I will be joining them in the near future.

It’s too hard to live. I thought of the period after the crash as “the Trial” or “the Test.” There was something to live for. A reason to push on. Anything.

I heard of the news of her family and that was when I gave up. I was ready to hear that she was dead, and I was eager to see them all again, the Hawthornes, my honorary family.

I believe there is a place people go when they die. It isn’t necessarily a heaven. If there is a heaven, that would be nice. I’ll find out soon.

But Stephanie didn’t die. She is still alive. And from the updates I am receiving from the nurses taking care of me, she is getting better and better with each passing day.

And my grief, and the refusal to move on, flips around. It turns into something I haven’t felt in the longest while…

…hope.

There _is_ a reason to live. There _is_ a purpose.

And that purpose is Stephanie.

I miss her so much I could swear this is withdrawal, like I’m being deprived of a therapeutic drug. I can’t even think about her without being overcome, overwhelmed with this longing from not being able to see or touch her.

I need her. I need a sign, a message, anything from her.

In the darkest days, I think the nurses are lying to me. That she really is dead, and they’re keeping this tiny flame of hope inside of me so that when they finally tell me the truth, the shock will blow it out and kill me.

I wait for this time to come. It doesn’t.

* * *

**Wednesday, April 20 th**

I am lying in bed, sapped of strength. Yeah, I don’t feel like seeing anyone. The nurses don’t know that, though. Allison, the one with the blond-brown hair and sharp gray eyes, enters the room. I close my eyes. I really don’t want to talk to her. She’s smart; she can tell when I’m this way.

But apparently today’s different. She stands next to my bed, says in her firm voice: “Hey, Michael. You want to see your girl.”

She can cut to the chase! I open my eyes. I have to say, I’m interested now.

“Today, we’ve decided you’re, you know, well enough. You still need to stay in here, in this room, but people can come over.”

“Steph? I can see her?" I’m so excited, I sit up, but the pain reminds me how stupid of an idea that was. I cringe after shouting, grabbing my back. “Holy—”

Oops. Allison’s still here.

“Umm, sorry.”

“That’s fine." She grins, slowly easing me back to my comfortable lying position. She’s got a sense of humor that I can’t understand sometimes.

“What time? Right now?”

“No.” I give her a look, asking her a silent question. “Six sharp,” she answers.

“What time is it now?”

“Five sharp.”

“A whole _hour_?!” I blurt inadvertently.

“If this were up to me, I would be calling up her room right now." The amused grin still hasn’t left her face.

“Sorry." I repeat myself way too often.

“It’s cool." She winks at me. I’ve taken a liking to her. She’s quirky, and she scrapes away at the hard edges I’ve allowed to grow on me.

 

I glance at the clock on the wall of my room.

Six sharp.

The doorknob turns, and I don’t know what I should do with my face. What will engage Stephanie? I settle on a casual curl of the lips.

My glimmer of excitement fades just a little when I see it isn’t her.

It’s my parents.

“Oh, Mickey!” my mother cries, rushing to my bedside and grabbing me, squeezing me in a hug that knocks the wind out of me. I hate the nickname Mickey. Thank God no one knows about that other than my parents.

“Michael,” my dad says gruffly, ruffling my hair.

“Hi, guys,” I manage to utter when Mom’s finally pulled away.

That’s when the tornado starts.

“Honey, are you okay? The doctors have given you so many diagnoses! I’ve been so worried about you! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How are you feeling?" On and on and on.

“Mom, it’s fine." I fill her up on my time here. Leaving out most of the important stuff. Okay, everything. Basically all I bother to tell her is that I’ve been too bored, although in all honesty I’ve had too much to think about, all alone in this hospital room. I think I’ve grown more mature and wise and thoughtful and philosophical than my parents ever could without going through something like this that could change them to this extent.

After we’ve talked a lot about the outside world and so on, I ask Mom and Dad the question I’ve been worrying about since I got here. “You’ve heard about Stephanie’s family." It isn’t a question. Of course they have. Hillstone is a really small town, and news travels _fast_.

Their eyes darken simultaneously. “Yes, we have,” Dad says, his voice sharp.

“She doesn’t have parents anymore.”

“What are you getting at, son?”

“I want you to take care of her.”

“Forever, you mean? Like, adopt her or something?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

My mother’s hard face grows even deeper lines at these words. “Honey, maybe this is a good time to have a little talk.”

I don’t like the tone of her voice, but I let her speak.

“She, and her family, were the ones who persuaded you to come on this trip with them. If you didn’t go, if we weren’t foolish enough to let you go, this would have never happened. You wouldn’t be sitting here. You know how we feel about her. We never approved of your friendship. We always knew something like this would eventually happen — an association with her that would end with a disaster. Why would we want an influence like that live in our house? How would we feed it, clothe it, nurture it with our own money when all it would do is pollute this planet?”

Am I seriously hearing this correctly?

“What?” I manage.

“Honey, I know this is a lot to take in at one time. Maybe—”

“No." I am surprised at the defiant snap of the word. “You did _not_ say those things about Stephanie and her family.”

Mom exchanges a glance with Dad. “We knew you might be a little—”

“ _No_ ,” I repeat, even stronger. “You are going to take care of her. She has _no one_ —”

“See, she’s brainwashed you too!” Mom shouts.

That shuts me up.

Or probably just fuels me.

“ _Okay_ , now that you’re done with your spiel, it’s my turn. First of all, it isn’t entirely her fault. Actually, it _entirely isn’t_ her fault. It was _Maria’s_ birthday, and wasn’t _I_ the one that asked you? Second of all, _you_ were the ones that said yes. Don’t you understand that if you were so cautious, you would’ve said no in the _first place_?! Then, and for this you’re right, we wouldn’t be sitting here. Third of all, how could you call a _human being IT_?! She’s a _human being_. With a heart, and a brain, functioning just like yours or mine. Although not _yours_ , because you don’t have either.”

I am panting by the time I’m done. I didn’t realize I was shouting, or how hard and labor-intensive shouting can be. My parents just stare at me, speechless. I hold their gazes.

“Honey,” my mom shouts back, defeating the purpose of the affectionate word, “we thought you would understand what we were trying to tell you. We thought you could handle it. Apparently you can’t.”

“Yeah, I can’t. And I _don’t_ understand. How could you just reject a girl who has no one? What has she done to you?”

“We’re just trying to _protect_ you,” Dad says.

“Protect me from what? A _girl_?!" I turn angrily to him. “You’re a guy. Shouldn’t you understand? The guy is the more dominant one. I shouldn’t be forced to cower away from a _girl_. What’s that supposed to say about your parenting abilities? Refusing her a normal life does nothing to benefit me. How else can I understand the dangers of the real world without _experience_?”

Suddenly, we hear the door open. Allison sticks her head inside. “Everything okay?” she asks gently.

We all start talking at once.

“Yeah,” I say in the most flippant tone possible.

“Fine.” Dad doesn’t bother to sound normal.

“Perfect!” Mom’s voice is way too perky.

“’Kay." She smiles warmly before popping back out.

We stare at each other, but only for a few seconds. We’re still mad — no, furious — but the purely malicious atmosphere has disappeared.

“We’re leaving,” Dad growls, grabbing my mother’s arm forcefully, pulling her up from the chair she’s sitting on.

“And don’t expect another visit from us,” Mom says, stomping to the exit with Dad.

“I don’t _want_ one!” I holler, but the door has already closed behind them. I close my eyes, exhausted. All I want at this moment in time is to sleep. Then I hear a quiet creaking noise — the door opening again. Meek footsteps make clicking sounds on the floor. Allison must know I don’t want to talk. The footsteps come closer, to the side of my bed.

 _Allison, go away!_ I mentally prompt her.

But that’s when the person says something.

It’s my name, uttered in a soft, wistful breath. “Michael…”

I hope Stephanie doesn’t notice I’ve tensed up at her presence. Apparently she hasn’t, because she starts to whisper to me, and I realize she thinks I’ve fallen asleep. “Michael, I can’t believe I’m here. I’m finally here, Michael." She stops for a second, and when I hear a sniff, I know she’s crying. “I hope you’re okay. I’ve been thinking about you every single day. My family is dead, Michael. I need you to help me grieve. I want to die…”

I hope she doesn’t notice the hitch in my breathing when she says this.

“But you’re here for me. At least, I hope you are. I don’t know if…if you still love me. I love you.”

The only reason I’ve kept my eyes closed is because I want to know what she’ll say to me when she thinks I’m not listening.

“I love you _so much_. That’s all I’ve been thinking about for so long, after my parents." She stops again, and I hear a rustle — I assume she’s wiping her eyes with a sleeve. “Well, I guess I’ve gotta go. I don’t even want to touch you, because…" She ignores herself and touches my face, her fingertips tracing over my jaw, my cheeks, pausing at my lips. “You look so _tired_ and _sick_ …yeah, I need to go.”

I practically panic when I don’t feel her fingers on my skin, especially when I hear the _click click click_ of her walking away, unevenly. She must have an injury of the leg.

“Steph!” I call, jerking up, my eyes flashing open. I wince at the pain, but don’t make a fuss, in case she notices and starts to worry. “Don’t go.”

She whips around, her eyes widening when she sees me. For a second, she literally rushes to my side, but stops, just a few feet away from me. She looks so…I can’t pin down the expression on her face. Like she’d break if she moved any closer.

“Stephanie, I love you too, okay? You don’t need to worry.”

Relief softens the worry covering her features. She takes so long to get to me, so when she is finally close enough, I grab her hand. Her skin is warm and so alive, contrasting from mine, pale, veinous, and cold. I’m so relieved, until I see the fingernails are bitten down, to the point that there are fringes of blood caking them.

She sits down next to me, distracting me. Her free hand hovers above her lap, but then she takes it and places it at the nape of my neck, her fingers playing with my hair. Her eyes are so wide as she skims her gaze over me. I hope I don’t look as terrible as I feel. She looks different at first sight, and I can’t look at her after a few seconds just because of the way the pain has defined her features. I pull her close to me and hold her for a while.

“I don’t even know anymore…” she whispers. “Everything is spinning out of control.”

“Me neither,” I tell her. “You’re absolutely right. That’s so true.” There’s a silence. “I missed you,” I finally murmur into her scalp.

“That’s an understatement,” she whispers back.

I curl my fingers into her hair and gently pull her head up towards mine. Her bright eyes hold a fragility I feel like I’m breaking when I kiss her, but any self-consciousness fades away when she pushes towards me. We couldn’t care less about taking things slow now. We are almost desperate in the need to be as close to each other as possible.

She pulls away just to inhale a gulp of air because that is how much I need her in that moment. I don’t even feel bad about it. My arms ache from clutching to her. I’m gripping on to her shirt. Our bodies are burning up on each other.

It’s too fast. It’s all rushed.

“I want to talk,” she mutters, almost to herself, reading my mind.

“Okay,” I breathe back. I cough and avert my eyes.

Because I finally remember the plan I’ve been devising for forever, all alone, rotting in this cell.

How I can distance her without breaking her, so I won’t break her.

I have already made my decision. I can’t change that decision.

I never will.

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” Stephanie seems so worried.

“No, we have to catch up.” My breath suddenly feels short and I feel dizzy from fatigue. “I’m gonna lie down,” I tell her, touching her cheek before relaxing into a reclining position. The concern in her eyes almost makes me feel better.

Almost.

She places a hand on my forehead, and I force a weak smile on my face. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry,” I mumble. I don’t _want_ her to worry about me. I don’t want her to be broken when she realizes what — who — I really am.

What will happen in just a few weeks.

“We would’ve graduated,” she says, her eyes so far away. Yes, you read that right. Even though she’s a year younger than me, she skipped her sophomore year and is now a senior along with people my age. She’s so smart. I’m jealous, to be honest.

It’s nice to know she will be able, strong enough to recover from this, sort things out, move on. From me.

But her eyes still want something, and I need to give it to her. I’d give anything to her. I put a hand on her shoulder. I want so badly to kiss her, and I feel it’s dangerous, this desire. It’ll be harder to do what I have to do.

Soon.

But I don’t care anymore. I bring my hand up to her face. I love looking at her. She’s just so gorgeous. Especially her eyes. I know she has a fetish for eyes. I don’t think she knows how magical hers are. Green, shimmering, like emeralds. I could get lost in them forever.

Now I’ve allowed myself to get attached.

Three words slip out of my mouth inadvertently: “I’m so sorry.” I want to punch myself, but I can’t, obviously.

“I don’t — I don’t know…” And then Stephanie bursts into tears. I swear, it scares me. She never cries. I pull myself up and hold her. I know I’m not helping anything, but I don’t know what else to do. So I just stay still with her in my embrace, feeling her tears soak in my old t-shirt from the hospital. Her hand, fingers curled into a fist, grasps tightly on the fabric, lying right on the area of my chest where my heart is. Every time she jerks in a sob, I squeeze her tighter, until I’m convinced I must be slowly killing her.

I don’t think I should ever use the k-word after this, even in a figure of speech.

I feel her body expand as she jarringly inhales a few calming breaths. “I am — so sorry,” she chokes. Almost exactly the same words I said to start her breakdown.

“Stephanie. There’s no need to apologize.” I stroke her hair and feel her relax.

There’s no space in my heart to do anything but sit there holding her, even when my head feels light and the room starts to spin.

* * *

**Sunday, April 24 th**

I’ve finally been exposed to my drug. And it’s been such a relief. I know I have something to live for now, as surely as I know I will lose it all.

My reserve of strength has been shrinking with each passing day, but it surges again when Stephanie visits me. Every day, without fail.

I love her to death, and it pains me that that love is requited.

No, not _un_ requited, but _requited_.

If she didn’t love me, it would be easy to do what I have to. But since she _does_ love me, and I love her, it takes every single ounce of my willpower, plus some to spare, is needed.

I have to do it. And I’ll do it today. Tonight, when she visits me.

It’s time.

* * *

Stephanie walks in my hospital room at six o’clock exactly. No one is allowed to come in at six because that time is reserved for only her and me. She’s a regular now, and Allison always asks about us together.

This is the last day she will ever come.

She walks in timidly. She always does. I’ve noted this, because this is the fuel I will use to burn her.

“Stephanie.” I say her full name forcefully, with a bite.

She stops in her tracks. Her eyes widen. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong with you today?”

She opens and closes her mouth. The confusion growing in her is palpable. I knew she would fall for the reverse psychology. I know exactly what she’s thinking — _What’s wrong with_ you _today?_

“Am I getting an answer or what?” I press on.

“If you want me to leave, just say so,” she tells me, her voice growing an edge.

“No. It’s about time we had a _talk_ ,” I spit, pulling myself up from the bed. “It’s over.” I thought of so many ways to say this. I didn’t know if I should build up to the defining line, or just say it outright and instantly. Apparently it’s choice number two.

The confusion is obvious, written all over her face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I know you know it was never bound to happen. It’s over between us.”

“Wh — what?” A sliver of anger grows in her expression, spawned from thick perplexity.

“You heard me. Don’t act like you're deaf or stupid.” I am cutting through so deep but I know if I tone it down even a bit more, I will give up on my plan and tell her I’m lying for all of this.

That’s when it hits her — I mean what I’m saying. At least, I’m pretending I mean what I’m saying.

“Oh,” she whispers, and that small, one-syllable, two-letter word rips through my heart. “I see it now.”

“Finally.” I roll my eyes. “That took a while.” My fists are clenched under the sheets. This is too hard. I don’t know how I’m still doing this according to the plan.

She shifts on her feet, biting her lip. Mine part just thinking about kissing her.

No, no, no. I can’t tempt myself.

“What did I do wrong?”

I sigh, as if I’m exasperated with her. “Everything. I can read you better than you think I can. Every time you walk in here, it’s like you don’t want to see me. I know you don’t. You’re just trying to be a goody-goody as always.” She’s about to say something, I can tell, but I don’t let her. I’m already in the zone. I can’t stop now. I’ve put myself in the mindset to tell her things that will hurt her deeply, sound convincing, and hope she won’t dwell on it. “Don’t even,” I snap, holding up a hand to silence her. She looks so shocked. I force myself to continue with my kind of rant. “Can’t you see that I’ve been changed from this crash? You act like you’re the only one who’s been affected. But you aren’t.” My eyes narrow. “I can barely _move_ out of this bed. And you _visit_ me? Like a taunt? That’s just cold.”

Her hand covers her mouth. “I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t know. You didn’t bother to notice.” I pause just to clench my teeth. “I don’t want to see you anymore. Get out.”

Her head shakes from side to side, microscopically. Her mouth trembles. She’s visibly upset. I know she hates being yelled at, yet that’s exactly what I’m doing. I feel cruel, evil, preying. _But this isn’t me,_ I tell myself. _It isn’t. I need to do this._

“Okay,” she says. “Bye, then. I really do hope you get better.”

 _I won’t,_ I think, but aloud I say, “Yeah, right.”

Her body tenses, she spins around, and she walks out, her strawberry-blond hair bobbing on her bent shoulders in curling waves.

I feel an indescribable, incomparable relief, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Now I can die without guilt.

Hoping that she isn’t tortured by this faux decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell, and I feel the need to point this out now, in case of any confusion - this chapter was written in Michael's point of view. I wanted to give a glimpse of his motivations and his thought process for making the decisions that he does in this chapter. I hope I haven't infuriated too many reasons by making him like this though! Haha. Let me know what you think.


	7. A Rush of Blood to the Head

**Sunday, April 24 th**

I really, honestly, can’t believe it.

Because I saw it coming.

It was too good to be true. Everything was. So when it all fell apart, this was bound to happen.

I’m drowning in a kind of frozen shock, but I’ll get over it.

A doomed relationship was and is the least of my problems.

* * *

**Monday, April 25 th**

I visit Heidi Schultz’s mother, Rena, before and after I stop seeing Michael.

She is surprisingly spry and excitable considering she is in the hospital. She adores me. She always tells me about how I remind her of Heidi when she was younger. I feel happy about that. She also tells me about the preparations for the baby shower and how she hopes I’ll come.

One of the days I visit her, I bring a mini portable keyboard, the kind bought for baby kids. “This is my gift to Heidi’s child,” I say to Rena, and play simple nursery rhymes for her. She is delighted I thought of this. Then I play more complex songs, anything from church hymns to pop songs-turned-sheet music, and she practically jumps for joy. I wish she could. I wish a woman as strong as her didn’t need to be punished by a stupid heart disease.

It dampens my spirits just a little to have to walk past Michael’s room to get to Rena’s. But visiting Rena makes up for the amity I’ve lost to residual bitterness. She brightens my day, every day. So I visit her every day.

* * *

**Monday, May 2 nd**

Rena has left this hospital, and I am overjoyed. Finally, she is not bound to the confines of this wretched place as an ailing senior. I am angry for myself for feeling a twinge of jealousy and sadness — the first because she is leaving, and the second because I will not be able to see her daily anymore. She has given me her contacts so I can still keep in touch. She is my only contact on my new phone, given to me by Mrs. Bloom, my therapist. The other was destroyed in the crash. She never did tell me if it was a gift, or if she bought it with my parents’ money.

I really should be more grateful to this hospital. They saved my life here. They turned me into a cyborg here to preserve me.

I am alive because of the people here.

I guess I am just tired of roaming the white halls just to return to my white room. Too much white. White symbolizes innocence, cleanliness, purity, safety, goodness.

And surrender.

If the stuff of legend is real, I would think this hospital is part of some sort of conspiracy. The reason they surround us with so much white is to brainwash us, make us dizzy with lies. We will never be what white symbolizes — whole, unblemished, perfect. And they’ll put us under their spell so we will be helpless under them.

I refuse to be part of this.

I need to get out of here.

But I really and truly am grateful for this hospital being erected here in this location, conveniently for me. Just for the record.

* * *

**Friday, May 6 th**

I have finally left the hospital after a month and thirteen days. It is now Friday the 13th, and I am driving in the back of a car reeking of fart and cheap perfume.

Talk about unlucky.

Driving this prison on four wheels is Mrs. Bloom, my therapist. She is trying way too hard to make small talk and say positive things to me, but I refuse to respond. I’m too busy thinking. She’s told me that I’m going to a temporary home — somewhere I can stay before someone finds a place for me to live permanently — the household of the person who takes care of my parents’ estate. I don’t know anything about this person. I don’t even know if it’s more than one person, or even their gender.

Am I scared to ride in a car for the first time since the crash? Yes. Terrified. I don’t think it’s because I think Mrs. Bloom and I will get in another one, but my stomach is churning and my whole body is taut, and I don’t even know why.

I am torn from my thoughts when I hear the beeping of a phone. “Sorry, I got a text,” Mrs. Bloom says, sighing. “I’ll look at it later, at a better time.”

After a while, we pull up in front of a tiny, tidy home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Pots of flowers are placed on shelves and hanging from ledges. Vines slither on the brick of the walls, growing freely and looking surprisingly pretty. It has a porch and swinging bench stacked with books. Seeing books makes me strangely excited.

Mrs. Bloom helps me out of the car and offers me her hand to hold. I bristle. She acts like I’m a baby. “No, thank you,” I say curtly, straightening myself so I look taller than her. My limp and slouch makes me look like a fool, but it’s growing less and less noticeable. We walk up to the olive green door side by side.

It is opened after some difficulty by a middle-aged woman I immediately analyze. She has long, wavy brown hair that reaches halfway down her back, and warm brown eyes that immediately make me feel content.

This makes me scared and discouraged.

She wears an apron and a dress that is tight at her slim waist and puffy below it, like an outfit from a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel. Her fingers are covered with dough, and she holds a whisk.

“Oh, you must be Stephanie!” she cries, wiping her hands on the apron and holding one out to me, the one without the whisk. I take it tentatively and shake. “I’m sorry I’m so ill-prepared, my husband has a luncheon tomorrow and he asked me to cook something up. That door is always causing trouble, too. I think it has a problem with me. Come in! Do you like lemon tarts, Stephanie?”

She beckons us in with the whisk, smiling. I stare at her for a second, wondering if she’s kidding. Then, deciding she isn’t, I nod in answer to her question and walk in. I’m engulfed by the smell of baking sweets. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles. It is only now that I realize I’m starving.

“Perfect! I’ll be sure to give you both some. Please, take a seat.”

The couches are covered decoratively in homemade fabrics. One piece of cloth is speared with needles, in the process of being finished. The detailing is intricate and meticulous, and I’m very impressed by how much time must have been put into making them. When I sit down, the couch is comfortable and plush.

“You don’t have a problem with keeping Stephanie with you?” Mrs. Bloom asks the woman as if I’m not there.

The woman laughs. “I think the real question is if _she_ wants to stay with _me_.” She glances at me, looking for a response. This is nothing like how I’d expect her to answer that question. I shrug. A click is heard from the other side of a door. “That’s the oven!” the woman says, standing up. “I’ll return shortly.” She opens the door, walks in, and disappears.

Mrs. Bloom turns to me. “She really is a sweet lady,” she says, as if I thought she wasn’t. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Now, let’s see that text.” After about a half a minute, she looks up. “Michael’s out of the hospital.”

“That’s great.” It really is. I’m so relieved. He may hate me, but I don’t hate him. I want the very best for him.

Mrs. Bloom smiles in her forced way. “Everyone smooths out the creases of their lives eventually. You’ll live on beyond your tragedy. So will he. It’s going to be okay.”

Can she _ever_ stop with this? It pains me, the things she says.

The woman walks back in, her apron off, holding a tray of mini lemon tarts. They are perfectly round and glow golden. She holds the tray out to me. “Feel free to help yourself to as many as you want.”

I take one and nibble it. A burst of colorful, tangy flavor fills my mouth. “Wow, these are delicious!”

“Thank you, dear.” She offers them to Mrs. Bloom and she takes three. I sigh mentally. What a greedy pig. Although I’d like to take three at a time myself.

The woman sets the tray down in front of us and sits. “Stephanie, my name is Darlene Lynch, and I am your parents’ executor. I will be taking care of you until I find a home you can live in permanently. It will preferably be with a relative closest to the state of California.” I nod. “Only my husband and I live in this house, so if you ever feel lonely, just tell me.” I nod again. “We are perfectly willing to do whatever possible for you. We want you to have a wonderful time here at our house.”

This is when I smile. A real one. The way she talks to me is as if she believes I am an adult, not a child. She looks me straight in the eye and uses a gentle but firm voice. She actually wants to explain everything to me, instead of leaving me in the dark. “I don’t need much. Just books and a radio.”

She grins. “I can do that.” We sit there exchanging happy faces until joykill Mrs. Bloom clears her throat.

“Well, it’s settled, then! Stephanie, contact me regularly, okay? I’ll miss you.”

“Me too,” I say aloud, but on the inside I’m thinking, _The feeling is not reciprocated, ma’am._

“I must be off.” She gets up, wipes some fake tears away from her face, and leaves in a flash. It’s just Mrs. Lynch and I in the house now.

“I’m assuming your hobbies are reading and music?” Mrs. Lynch says. I nod in reply. I’ve been nodding a lot. “The library is nearby. Your house is about a half hour away from here, but it’s on the route my husband takes home from work. If you ever need anything, just tell him and he’ll be glad to get it for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch.”

She laughs. “Darlene, please. Not any of that proper stuff.”

“Okay then, Darlene.”

“That’s better. Another tart?”

“Yes please.” I take one and try to eat it slowly.

“Do you want to see your bedroom?” I nod. I think my head will fall off if I don’t start verbally saying yes soon.

She leads me upstairs and into a room at the end of the hall. I smile when I walk in. The painting-adorned walls are a pale blue, with a window casting shadows and sunbeams across the room. There are dresser drawers to my left, and the bed is tucked into the far right corner of the room, draped in sheets of white. The curtains are the same shade of green as the front door of the house. There are lamps and candles on every flat surface.

“I really like it,” I tell Darlene.

“I’m glad,” she says. “If there’s anything you want us to add, just tell me. I’ll get a radio soon.”

“You don’t need to,” I protest, but she shushes me.

“It really isn’t a problem. My husband and I always wanted a child. We want to make you happy.” For some reason I feel like crying. I think she sees the change in my expression. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I mean to be casual and brush it off, but she takes me by surprise when she envelops me in a hug. That’s when I start to cry in her shoulder. I can’t stop myself. I’m becoming so weak and pathetic. It’s only for about fifteen seconds, but I feel sunken into the ground for that small amount of time. She rubs my back to calm me down, and it helps. “I hate myself,” I say with a sniff after letting it all out. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m so lame.”

“Don’t say that,” she orders reproachfully. “I cry for no reason all the time. It’s completely normal. And I hope this isn’t completely the wrong thing to say, but I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. You’re an unbelievably strong young woman.” As if by magic there’s a tissue in her hand, and she gives it to me. I wipe my face. This is completely the right thing to say. I already feel better. Darlene’s hand is still on my shoulder, and she keeps it there. “I think we should go downstairs. Lemon tarts don’t eat themselves, do they?”

“You’re right. And your lemon tarts are the best.”

“Thank you, dear. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you sometime how to make them.”

“I’d love that.”

We walk down the stairs hand in hand.

* * *

**May**

I don’t need to go to school anymore.

I receive my courses in the mail so I can still graduate and be able to apply to college in the future. I’m quite glad about this new development. I don’t think I’ll be able to face my classmates ever again — innocent (well, not innocent at all, but innocent in the ways and contexts I’ve been tainted), naïve, and able to live without wishing to die. They don’t care about life. They’re readily able to throw it all away if they could. They’d probably jump into a stranger’s car as long as they said they were from a different high school and wanted to hang out at night in a motel. My classmates know nothing. They’ll never know anything until they get themselves on the right track.

I try to forget them. Try to forget everything. Lock myself up in a cage, encase myself in a bubble, build a layer of numb protection over myself. I don’t _want_ to remember, because it _will_ break me.

I even try to forget Mrs. Bloom. In fact, I do forget her. I never did contact her after she dropped me off with the Lynches. Why would I? There’s no way she honestly thought I missed her, right? She was synonymous with depression, in my eyes.

Instead, I throw myself all in my new life with Darlene and her husband, Steve.

This new life is perfection.

Steve is just as nice as his wife, and he’s always willing to take me places in his Jeep. He loves that car. I don’t tell him how my heart stumbles every time I press the button to roll a car window down, or when he decides to take the turns a little too sharp, my stomach drops. He’s too much of a reckless driver. Like my own father.

That was the end of him, and the rest of my family.

But he drives me around to places like bookstores, libraries, cafés, and restaurants with his wife. He’s even taken me to a concert for a local up-and-coming band, as an outing just for the two of us. It was amazing. The strobe lights and fog machines totally made the dark, cramped setting work. I’m pretty sure you had to be over twenty-one years old to go, the water I ordered did taste a little too crisp and look a little too light green to be water, the people there were wearing very little clothing, and it was something I would have never been allowed to attend before everything changed, but I felt different.

Of course I did. I was older, and more mature, and who cares if my water was actually white wine? I might have felt lightheaded after drinking it but everything just seemed more vibrant. I felt free.

And anyway, Steve never let me out of my sight. As soon as he figured out that I might have had the wrong drink at the party, we left and instead chilled out at a 24/7 café. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. I think even if it wasn’t open, Steve would be able to convince someone to let us in. He was just that smooth with his words, and his voice had the warmest timbre. Or he’d ask a friend for a favor who just happened to have a key to the place. He had a lot of friends. And no wonder. People hung out with him for all kinds of good reasons.

Darlene never did find out about that crazy night. I promised Steve I’d never tell her about it. I’d never want to. It was a night for just the two of us. That night was a reminder of all the things I could have missed out on. All the crazy nights ahead of me, symbolizing my life ahead.

And Darlene. She was completely different from her husband: more conservative, gentle, and quiet, opposed to diehard, intense, loud Steve. She was the one who taught me how to crochet and sew, as well as cook and bake. We had lots of fun in the kitchen.

We would also go on shopping sprees that we found out neither of us enjoyed. She didn’t like how all the styles were too flashy and exposing, and I didn’t like to wear clothes that were unfamiliar. Our first time shopping at the strip mall downtown ended with us gorging ourselves with homemade chocolate at the house of one of Darlene’s friends, the only item purchased being a phone case for me. We are alike in so many ways.

She also helped me with funeral arrangements for my family. She found a lovely little garden to have the ceremony, and a church, coincidentally the one Heidi had told me about that day in the elevator. She even helped me write the eulogy. The date is still pending, but I am so glad I had her help. It wouldn’t be a funeral with her — it would be a celebration of my family’s lives.

One day I asked Steve to take a trip to my old house and get my Kindle and MP3 player from my bedroom. We jammed to the songs all together, and I sang along. They complimented me on my singing voice. They loved it all. I was so happy for all those days, when it was the three of us, like a family. A replacement family. I was the daughter they never had.

Steve and Darlene, and my own strenuous efforts, almost made me forget about it all, everything that’s happened. Why I was there with them in the first place. Of course, it would always tickle every single thought I had, at the back of my mind. Sometimes I even felt guilty for being so happy, so _alive_ , without my family. My real family.

Everywhere I go, I can’t help but think of them. Everywhere I go, I think of my sister. _She’d love this place._ My father. _He’d scoff at me if I made these people pay this much._ My mother. _She’d tell me not to eat so much._

And the nightmares. They don’t leave. I don’t think they ever will. The crash repeats itself every night, embedded in my memory. Devils with forked tongues and spear-like tails reach out to me, eager to drag me into Hades’s realm. Skeletons dance around my lifeless body. Gruesome images rob me of sleep. When Darlene offers me medicine, I don’t even try one pill. I have to live through this. I deserve this.

Darlene tries so hard. So do the nightmares. But what they did succeed in was making me forget about Michael. He was healed. He was alive. He’d be able to live the way I am. Maybe without me, and I know that he didn’t care as much as I did, but it’s okay. I want to see him again, though, no matter how much I refuse to.

One day, Darlene and I are baking brownies together. We are listening to my MP3 player when it started to play the song Green Eyes by Coldplay. I listen quietly to the lyrics, and then I get angry. I can’t take this. It reminds me of Michael and his hypnotizing, color-changing green eyes. And my own. It would have worked the other way around and Michael could be thinking about me while listening to this very song.

I quickly wipe my doughy hands and skip the song, turned away from Darlene so she won’t see the tears leaking from my eyes. I hate these tears! I hate my diaphaneity! I hate my nostalgia! I hate my painfully human feelings! I hate everything about myself!

Darlene can see I’m upset. She is very perceptive. “I know you probably don’t want me to ask this, but is there anything wrong? I may be able to help.”

She is very doubtful of herself. As perceptive as she may be, she does not realize the effect her words have on me. She always says the right thing. Everything about her makes me feel at home, at ease, safe. So I find myself telling her everything, from our early friendship to our budding romance and then how the crash changed everything between us. She listens so attentively and patiently. I can’t bear to meet her comforting eyes.

“So when I heard that song just now, it brought back memories of him,” I finish timidly, averting my gaze.

“It’s a very nice song.” Darlene is silent in thought. Finally, she says, “He may not love you honestly any more, but I think you should still treasure the time you had with each other. Everyone is cast to the side eventually when it comes down to love.”

“That’s true,” I say thoughtfully. I’ve read enough books to tell me this.

“I once had a little fling in high school,” she thinks out loud. “Not that your relationship was just a little fling. It might have been something more. But mine wasn’t. It was the definition of a little fling. I was dating a boy on the football team.” She smiles, a distance finding its way into her expression as she sinks deeper into the past. “Well, the backup for the linebacker, but still. I considered him an idol. I thought he was perfect. Then I found out he pretended he liked me because of a dare. I was so hurt, and for a little while I was all tears, hung up on our fake love. Then I met Steve in college.”

Her distant look turns more grounded as she is pulled back to the present. “I am not trying to compare my story to yours. I know yours was less shallow. I think what I am trying to say is that maybe it was for the best. You may find someone else, and you may not. Whatever you do, though, don’t give him the satisfaction of wounding you.”

I especially relate to that last statement. “Thank you, Darlene. What you said is absolutely right. You are so wise.”

“I’m not wise. I guess it’s just because I’m older than you and have been through more. You have a whole life ahead of you.” She makes a face. “Everything I just said was so cheesy.”

I laugh with her. “You think a lot like me. Or I think a lot like you. Either way, we think alike.”

“Steve and I are completely different. Somehow, we all fit together perfectly, like a tangram.”

“Exactly!” I feel exhilarated. “I knew talking to you would make me less confused!”

“Why, I’m glad you have that kind of faith in me.”

“I do. Everything you say is like poetry. Like the teachings of a philosopher.”

“That is much too flattering for my taste. I do nothing of the sort.” She turns back to our abandoned and unfinished brownies, embarrassed.

“You do! Just being around you makes me learn more.”

“Just being around you keeps me at peace.” She gives me a loving smile. I have to give her a hug.

“Darlene, I really appreciate what you have done for me in all of this.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders, pushing me away from her. Her eyes meet mine. “You are the most disciplined, considerate young woman I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. You deserve the best life has in store.” That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, and I tell her this. “I love you like my very own daughter. I’ll do anything to make your life worth living to the fullest.”

I am overcome by emotion, and I clear my throat. “Let’s make some brownies, shall we?”

She squeezes me tight. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

* * *

**Thursday, May 19 th**

Today is Heidi’s baby shower. Darlene and I go, accompanied by Steve. Selfless as he is, he missed work to go, just for me. Darlene and Steve don’t even know her, yet they let me go just because I wanted to. I bring the gift of the keyboard that I wrapped in blue paper, after finding out the baby was going to be a boy. The Lynches bring home goods and money.

There are so many people there, and I panic just a little when I can’t find Heidi and Rena. I am so relieved when I finally do, and they are so happy to see me and the gifts, which they are so thankful for. There is a huge table-full of presents for Heidi and the child, and I am so glad for her. She was unbelievably nice and caring to me in my time of distress.

Apparently every child in the Schultz family tree were taught to play piano, and there is a piano-playing contest. Even the four-year-olds can play more than simple tunes, and I am super impressed. I can tell Darlene and Steve are too by their wide eyes and smiles.

Then Rena pushes _me_ over to the piano. I am so embarrassed because I don’t know what to play, and whatever I decide, I know it won’t be as good as the little ones, and no one recognizes us. But I conjure an improv song and made up words, and somehow everything falls together. I really am someone else besides the grief-racked, ruined soul I’ve become when someone gives me an instrument to play.

But when I play the piano, I think of Maria. I think of her extraordinary talent. I think of her smile as she played. I think of how much she would have loved playing at this place.

It pushes me. I play better than I have ever tried to before. It honors her spirit. It means the world to me to be able to do this for her.

This little outing with the Lynches was something I really needed, somewhere to be with people familiar to me that actually love me as much as they do.

* * *

**Saturday, May 21 th**

Darlene and I are going to retry an attempt at shopping. We prepare a list and get ourselves centered, positive we won’t let ourselves get distracted this time.

We are already at the car parked in the front driveway when I remember I’ve forgotten my phone in the house. I tell Darlene that I’ve gone back to get it and she hands me the keys. As I approach the house, I glimpse something small and yellow on the dark olive green door. When I look closer, I see it’s a sticky note.

My heart stops.

Written in all caps, clear as day, are three words: _LOOK FOR IT_.

But that’s not what sends chills racing through me.

It’s the handwriting.

****

**LOOK FOR IT**

****

How, and why, would Michael put a sticky note saying this on the door of the house I’m living in? I thought we were way past contact with each other.

Something screams _Warning!_ inside me, and I try not to panic. I hate confusion. Everything must be put in a neat little box when associated with me. By me. This message is terrifying for some reason. Look for what? Why? There are so many questions.

“Stephanie, is everything alright? Are you having trouble getting that darned door open?” Darlene calls.

I reach out and rip the sticky note off the door, stuffing it in my pocket. “No, I’m fine!” But as I try to actually open the door, I find I do have trouble. “Umm, actually…”

She comes over and in an impressive feat of strength yanks the door with all her might. It swings open. “There we go,” she says, clapping her hands to get rid of dust. “Just need to put a bit of effort in it.”

I barely hear what she is saying. My head swims with bafflement.

I had better find out the meaning of the note, and fast.

* * *

**Monday, May 23 rd**

Today Darlene calls me into her office. It is small, cluttered in a controlled sort of way, with lots of papers in neat piles, a bookshelf full of books, and work drawers bursting with brochures. Maps and National Geographic posters cover every wall. The only light in the room is provided by lamps, no windows. There is even a mini refrigerator tucked away in a corner.

She beckons me to her large, messy desk and shows me a map of North America dotted with red thumbtacks. There are absolutely none west of the Mississippi River, but the East Coast is full of them, as well as Texas and Mexico. The border between Canada and the U.S. is lined with them.

“Each thumbtack represents a household of distant family members of yours. We are trying to look for a place that will take you. Our best choice would be here.” She points to one in the northeast corner of Illinois. “Lilished is a village in the south suburbs of Chicago. Your family in Texas doesn’t have an income sustainable for another member, and we definitely would not want you going out of the country. Would you be okay with living in Illinois? It’s quite far away, but it’s the closest you can be to California.”

She looks sad when she says this, and weathered, as if she spent quite a while gathering data to compile for this map. I don’t want to cause trouble for her. “That sounds great,” I say.

I am shocked, though. It’s really happening. I’m leaving the area I’ve lived in all my life. Not only this county, not only this state, but I’m not even living in the same half of the United States. I feel faint at this thought.

“Really?” A weak smile appears on her face. I nod. “You need to return to your old house to pack, take some things with you to Lilished.”

Oh, no. I don’t think I can handle returning to the home I haven’t been in for so long, the place I used to live with the family I used to have. My body stiffens. “I’ll do it,” I say, my voice tight.

Darlene notices my discomfort, of course. “If you make a list, Steve will be more than willing to get it instead for you.”

I think it’s funny how she speaks for Steve. She must have a lot of influence over him.

I shake my head. “I have to get over this fear. It won’t ever do me any good.”

She sighs. “Whatever you say.” A phone rings somewhere in the room. Darlene turns towards the sound and drifts towards the receiver, peering at it. “It’s Mrs. Bloom,” she tells me, picking it up. “Hello?” *long pause* “Yes.” *long pause* She puts a hand over the bottom of the phone. “Stephanie, is it okay if you left for a second?”

I nod, but stop for just a little before getting out. I feel better around Darlene.

Trudging out, I curl up on the couch, hugging the newest of her cloth masterpieces, smelling chocolate chip cookies in the fabric. Smells calm me down a lot of the times when I am worked up.

Suddenly I hear a noise — something between a gasp and a cry. I immediately rush over to the door. There’s a click as she puts the phone back in the receiver.

“Darlene, are you okay?” There’s no answer. “Darlene?”

“Please don’t come in,” she calls. Her voice is wobbly.

So of course I ignore her, bursting in the room.

Darlene has her face in her hands. She is hunched over, her shoulders shaking with sobs, tears leaking through her white-knuckled fingers. I race to her side.

“What happened?”

“Michael,” she says, choking on the name. “He’s dead.”


	8. The Heist

I can’t believe this. I can’t.

Michael, with his kaleidoscopic eyes and long hair that curled around his face and a drop-dead-gorgeous smile. The one that held me close and told me he loved me and kissed me like we were the only two people in the world.

He can’t be dead.

Perfection like him seems immortal.

And he was whisked away from this earth because of a car crash?

That I, of all people, survived?

Which basically sums up to everyone except me dead?

An empty, painful numbness spreads through the empty shell of my mortal body.

“How?” I whimper.

Darlene sits up, wiping the tears from her beautiful face. “Something about a faulty heart valve the doctors overlooked. I wasn’t listening.”

How could they overlook that? Hatred and anger bubbles up in me. Why didn’t they overlook something in _my_ body that could result in _me_ dead instead of an angel? I knew that hospital was up to something! As if keeping me alive was a gift, instead of torturing me to live in this world. And taking everyone I love away from me and seeing how much I liked it.

Well, I hate it, thank you very much.

I sink to my knees. It’s very easy to cry now. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Familiar. Darlene has done this enough times for me to recognize the warmth of her hand and the way she touches me just so. She pulls me towards her, and we weep together.

* * *

**Tuesday, May 24 th**

I’ve thought about it overnight.

Something is wrong with all of this.

The tangram isn’t whole. It’s broken. And something’s suspicious about how it all doesn’t fit together like it should.

It all comes around to the sticky note.

Look for it. That was the message.

There’s no way it could have been a coincidence. He dies two days after giving me a cryptic order? After doing everything but banishing me from his life? We had never even seen each other after my last hospital visit. And all of a sudden he contacts me and then he’s gone forever?

Don’t tell me that’s normal.

And I’m not sure if I’m right, but I think I know where to find whatever Michael was trying to direct me to.

The only way to get there is through Steve. I can’t tell him what I’m about to do. My plan has to be executed in a sly, clever manner.

Slowly, methods and gameplay strategies make their way to my consciousness.

* * *

**Thursday, May 26 th**

Dinner at the Lynches is a quiet affair.

Tonight, however, I’m willing to fill the silence that usually permeates the kitchen table.

“Steve, I think I’m ready to go back home.” I stuff a neat piece of diced steak in my mouth.

I practiced that line in front of the mirror. I had to execute it. It had to be perfect — the ideal combination of phrasing, word choice, expression, and tone.

And I’ve nailed it.

Steve looks up, a mix of surprise, pity, and compassion written all over his face. I press on after swallowing. “I’ve collected myself. I need to get this done. I’m ready to leave this place forever.”

He nods, his jaw set. “If that’s what you need, I’ll take you there.”

I need to ask this next question gently but longingly, as if I don’t really care what the answer is, but I’d prefer it to be yes. It has to be yes. “Is it okay if I go tomorrow? I should go before I lose my courage.”

“Sure, sweetie.”

I take a silent deep breath. This was either the lock-in deal, or the killer of my plan. “I want to stay overnight.” I don’t dare to look at his face to see how he takes this request. “Sleep in my own bed one more time.” And now the clincher. “Did you know my bedroom ceiling is painted navy blue and has glow-in-the-dark stars aligned to form the night sky and constellations? I was always so afraid of the dark as a kid.” My throat closes and my eyes well. This isn’t an act. “My dad and I did that as a project together. He wanted me to be an astronaut.” I wipe my face on my sleeve, creating a nice pause for effect. “I always stared up at the roof if I couldn’t sleep, and imagined myself zooming around outer space, among the real versions of those stars.” I start to sniff unflatteringly. “Do you have a tissue?”

Steve and Darlene jump up so quickly I am almost startled. He gets a paper towel first and presses it in my hand, but not without giving it a comforting squeeze. “Thanks,” I mumble. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for!” “It’s okay!” “Don’t worry about a thing!” I am showered by dismissals. “I’d drive a hundred miles to get you where you needed to go,” Steve says, and a pang of guilt stabs through me. If only he knew why I was making a show. He wouldn’t be so loyal.

* * *

**Friday, May 27 th**

I tremble in the front seat of Steve’s Jeep, and at the same time, I feel paralyzed. Steve, nowhere near as sensitive as Darlene, doesn’t notice. I’m glad for this.

The drive is not without sound.

Steve actually tries to get me to start a conversation, so he asks about local inns he should stay at and restaurants to visit locally, that are by my house. He’s decided to let me stay alone in my own house until tomorrow morning.

I knew he would do this. I predicted the exact reason, too. He didn’t want to be “prying,” he said, something like, he was “not trying to intrude on matters given to others.” This is perfect for my plan. The tangram is one step closer to finally being solved.

He pulls up in front of my house, and a flood of familiarity rushes through me. This is where I’ve lived my whole life. _This_ is my home.

Steve hugs me for a long time before driving off. “I love you,” he tells me. “If you ever need _anything_ , anything at all, I am only ten minutes away.”

I nod. My phone’s contact list has gotten longer to _seven_ phone numbers — the Lynches’ home phone, Darlene’s cell, Steve’s cell, Steve’s work, the Schultz’s home, Rena’s cell, and Heidi’s cell. All of these just because three people care about me. That’s amazing to me.

When he pulls out of the driveway, his driving is slow and reluctant. I stare after him, worry building up in me.

My plan has got to work. I only have one night to execute it.

Swallowing my fears, I walk into my house. Thanks to the magic of Darlene, there are no realtors or bankers inside my house. I sigh as I look around — the piano illuminated by sunlight, the living room with its worn leather couches and down feather pillows, even the hideously orange kitchen. I almost collapse right there.

And that’s just the first floor.

I tramp up the wooden steps and down the hall to my bedroom. On both sides of me are the rooms of the rest of my family. Should I go in those first? Should I even go in at all?

I will. I have to. But my bedroom first.

I open the door to the room at the end of the hall.

And almost cry out in terror.

It’s been vandalized! Everything that should have been left untouched have instead been put in neat, labeled packages like _compact discs_ or _books_. My bedspreads are gone, probably in one of the boxes. All the dressers have been rearranged. No maps adorn the walls. The only thing that’s still the same is the color of the walls and the ceiling. I want to cry.

Instead, I throw myself into my sister’s room. It is the same.

They wouldn’t dare to touch my parents’ things?

Oh, but they would.

I curl up in a ball in the wooden hallway on the floor. Even this seems cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. I think about calling Steve and asking him if I can stay at the inn with him, but I can’t. I’ve buried myself too deep in this hole. I need to dig myself out of it alone.

First I walk over to the piano. I play a few notes and my hands feel dust. I am so sad about how this majestic masterpiece has been neglected. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the piano. ‘I’ll play your keys again, if only once.” I start with a jive that melts into a tango and then a waltz. I am lost in my music, and time slips away.

When I glance to my right, I see a ghostly figure. It is Maria. She smiles as she sits down beside me, placing deft fingers on the keys. She plays alongside me, twinkling treble notes that sound like bells. She is giggling uncontrollably, complementing me. Her face is luminous, her golden cheeks shining and flushed. “You play so much better than you did before we were separated between worlds. I am so proud of you!”

Then our parents come. They put loving arms around me and on my shoulders, telling me they are proud of me. And Michael joins us, and runs his ghostly fingers in my hair. I lean into their embraces, warm and comforting. They are here with me. They will save me from my nightmares. They would never betray me.

I have played for hours when I steel myself to get up and walk into my bedroom. My job now is to take out what I need from these boxes. And I have all day to do it.

* * *

**Saturday, May 28 th**

It’s one-thirty in the morning, so technically it isn’t Friday anymore. It still feels like it though.

I strut out of the house wearing a completely inconspicuous, womanly outfit — tight-fitting shirt, skinny jeans, and black tennis shoes. I am also holding a purse. This is to be filled with papers and whatever else Michael wanted me to find.

My destination is his house.

Previously, I had told you about my only times in Michael’s bedroom. But I had also said that was a story for another time.

This would be a fitting time.

The reason why I had to _sneak_ inside Michael’s home instead of being politely _invited_ to enter it was because of his parents’ illogical loathing of me. They hate me, remember? They’d never let me in their house.

But I know how to get in.

Michael has told me all the information I need to know. His mother has business meetings late at night, starting at ten o’clock and ending at five-thirty. She always leaves the back door unlocked because she always loses keys, the mildly scatterbrained woman that she is. Her husband, the only person in the house left, is a very deep sleeper. He snores, too. That could cover up for me if I make any noises.

I let myself walk along the sidewalks in the dim light of the night lamps lit up along the street. The reason why I could be out at about two in the morning must not seem suspicious. Most of the windows in most of the houses are dark, but whoever might still be up _cannot_ think my behavior is odd. Michael’s house is only a few blocks away from mine, but since I can’t run, it seems like an eternity before I see it.

There it is. I jump into the trees bordering the railroad tracks and strip off my disguise, stuffing it in my purse. I’ll need it later. Underneath it, I am clad in all black. I pull the ski mask over my face, tucking in my hair. I will blend in with the night.

I open the back door slowly. Thank goodness, it’s unlocked. I check my mental checklist. No need for Plan B, which was way riskier and banked a lot more on luck. I creep in and quietly close the door behind me, frowning at myself because it is so dark, making sure I test each step I take before putting weight in my thrusting foot.

That’s when I hear a noise. And it isn’t made by me.

I hear a snort and a guffaw as Mr. Hawke, I’m assuming, heaves himself out of his bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat, and it takes a while for my heart to stop racing. He trudges loudly to (as far as I can tell) the bathroom. I wait patiently to see if he will return to slumber, and soon, he does. I need to be extra careful now not to make a sound that he will notice. I’m glad that at least I know he is not fully asleep.

I cautiously reach the point where the stairway is to my right. I crawl up instead of walk, on all fours, without making a sound. Convenient that the stairs should be covered in synthetic fibers.

I finally reach Michael’s bedroom. The door is closed, and I open it quickly. If I open it too slowly, it will squeal. My eyes dart around the room. It is pitch black, unfamiliar. I do smell cinnamon-spearmint, though. What made him smell so nice all the time? Was it perfume or deodorant? Suddenly I realize how little I asked Michael in life. Even though I probably wouldn’t have asked him that question if it occurred to me.

I don’t shut the door behind me, deciding I’d rather risk someone seeing the beam of my flashlight than having to open the potentially squeaky door to get out of here. I make sure to flash it around with my wrist cocked to one side so the light can’t be seen too brightly from outside.

Unlike mine, Michael’s bedroom remains completely unblemished from death. I hate to tarnish it now, but it is all in the name of good. The walls are still covered in rock band posters. The bed is still unmade, his guitar still lying on it after being played. I don’t think his parents have ever even been in here since he died.

The first thing I seek out is his diary. His parents don’t know that he writes in one, he’s told me, so it should still be nestled under his mattress. There it is. I cram it in my purse. Mr. Hawke starts to snore, and it quickly becomes a kind of background noise, permanent and everlasting. Next I look in some of his drawers. If I see a piece of paper, it gets added to the purse without a glimpse. I trust something important is written on it.

But none of this seems like it would be the _it_ I’m looking for. Where could it be?

The answer turns out to be obvious. In desperation, I swing my arms around. My elbow whacks his pillow, and it falls to the floor. Out pops a piece of paper and a fat, stuffed envelope I take it with me. I also take his MP3 player, guitar pick locked up in a special jewelry box, backpack, and stashed money, which seems like a lot by the looks of it, but I’m not counting. The reason I steal the former two is plain greed. I need something to fill this hole in my heart without him. The latter two are practical. Just in case.

_I think my job is done now._

“Hey!” I hear a voice yell behind me. “What are you doing?”

I instantly shut off my flashlight.

It’s Mrs. Hawke.

Panic seizes me and locks all my muscles in place. For a second, I completely stop breathing. I am frozen in white-hot fear, afraid for my life.

Then my instincts kick in. Time for Plan B. I don’t think she’ll recognize me in my disguise, but she probably already knows my physique, especially my height. I haven’t bound my chest or anything, and I am quite tall for a girl.

I can’t let her see me. I need to get out before she finds the light switch.

I make sure to open the window, not kick it open. What if she calls the police? I can’t lose myself. The night air is still. I toss my purse out and it lands in the next door neighbor’s backyard. All the lights are off in that house. Then I slip out the window and fasten my feet on slabs of wood jutting out of the walls of the house, right before seeing Michael’s room fill with light.

In order to escape his house without his parent’s noticing, Michael had created stairs under his window. Also outside his window is a huge pile of junk. This is the kind of stuff you find in garages. It has not been moved for quite a while, so all the metal has rusted and a layer of dirt, grime, and indiscernible waste has settled over it. It will not move, even with my weight on it. I can’t take time going down the pile. My hands stick in slime and my lungs fill with dust.

Mrs. Hawke has probably awoken her husband and is looking out the window right now. Yes, she is, shouting down at me. “Stop, bandit!” she cries. “I’m calling the police!”

Somehow, I knew she would say that.

At that thought, I gather enough strength and literally _throw_ myself off the pile of junk, tumbling in a flip on the grass. The landing does not work exactly as planned, and my ankle twists. I hold my breath to prevent from crying out. _I still need to escape. Forget about the pain._ I grab my purse and just _run_ , my only thought to get the hell out of there, although hobbling on one foot.

I wonder about the fault in my plan. Why was Mrs. Hawke there? She wasn’t supposed to be. According to Michael’s information, she—

A horrifying thought comes to my mind. Could Michael have _lied_ to me? Given me false information so I could get caught? Did he hate me all along, ensnaring me in his web so I could get arrested or something? Maybe he even sent me the message because he _knew_ I would choose a Friday night to break in, and get busted. He figured out my plan. Unbelievable.

But I can’t think about that now. I have to get home.

I get back to the railroad tracks, at a crossing far away, and run on them. I don’t think the Hawkes are following me. I leap off the tracks and into bushes instead of trees. No one will see me here. Branches jab me in awfully uncomfortable places, and leaves obstruct most of my vision. My body feels numb, and only then do I realize what torture I’m going to be subject to in a few hours when I’m in my own bed. My metal-filled leg hurts, my back is arched, and my shoulder is twisted, not to mention various bruises and scrapes I’ve gotten.

I rip off my ski mask and sink my hands into the ground. My hair whips around and scratches my face in the breeze. That’s when I get an idea.

The dirt is coarse and dry, so I spit in it to turn it into mud. Then I rub it into my hair, deep in the scalp and on the tips especially, and pull it into a tight ponytail. It should look like a dirty blond now, if not brown. My brain registers this as a pun. Wow. Even in my most frantic moment, I had the time to figure that out.

I slip on my “normal” outfit and decide I must act like a jogger, so I’ll have an excuse to run. I set off towards home.

And then I hear a hoot. Of a train.

 _Oh, snap!_ I bury myself back into the bushes, but I am still so close I can feel the rush of the train blurring past me, freezing me in place, and getting a front row seat at the wheels, chugging past at an alarming rate. My breath is fast, barely making it to my lungs because of the harsh wind from the train. I’ve barely escaped death. I could have been squashed under that train as easily as cafeteria food under the Converse of excitable students.

This is a cargo train, which basically means it takes forever. I don’t think I’ve waited nestled in the outskirts of the track for more than ten minutes, but those are the longest ten minutes of my life. The din of that train is deafening, but I have to keep my thoughts straight, or that is what’s going to come back and haunt me in the end.

In those ten minutes, I rip my black clothes into strips, until the fabric is unidentifiable as garments. If the Hawkes have called the police, that means I have to get rid of my stealth clothing. Wind blows over me. I toss the shreds in front of me, and a swirling syphon carries them up and away. I stare up and watch them float away under the darkness. I don’t see any stars in the sky, and there is an insufficient half moon. I tilt my head towards the heavens until the train is finally gone.

Even with that brush with death, my plan is still to take the railroad home. I dash for easily half an hour until I see a crossing that looks familiar. I then take to the streets. Soon I see the familiar whitewashed brick and red curtains that have always symbolized home for me.

I am so relieved when I am finally back in my own house that nothing happened that I don’t even look at the papers I’ve risked so much for. Instead, I put all the stuff in another bag, throw away the purse, and take a nice, long bubble bath (somehow I’ve found hotel soap in one of the cupboards). My face feels raw, and I scrub at it and my body until I feel clean. I put so much force into feeling fresh that bruises pop up on my skin from the scraping of my nails.

The warm washes away any guilt or worry that may have been lingering in me. I douse my body in lotion, and sniff. I smell wonderful. Then I look in the mirror. Aside for a few white and red marks on my skin, which aren’t _that_ noticeable unless you search for them, I look fine. I am not going to stress myself out anymore. What I need now is sleep.

Yet I take a moment to observe my reflection. The girl staring back at me is shockingly unfamiliar. I haven’t looked in a mirror in a long time, and I appear very different. My hair glistens with a just-washed sheen, but my eyes do not hold the same light they used to have. My jaw is soft, but clenched. My nose is sharp and almost unnaturally straight. There is a scar on my right eyebrow and one nipping my top lip. I have never noticed these before. My cheeks are hollow and the bones in my face high and very visible. My hips are straight and my waist tiny. When I turn around, my spine is crooked from the crash.

I need to stop with this. The girl in the mirror scares me. I return to my bedroom shaking my head, as if to rid myself of thoughts of my own appearance.

I immediately fall asleep the second my body hits my bare bed, without comforters or sheets.

* * *

I don’t feel like waking up in the morning. I can’t bring myself to. I’ve lost so much sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open. I doze until ten, and then I lurch out of the bed and start sleeping on that clean wooden floor. Suddenly, I remember something very important I must do, so important that I immediately leap out of bed and rush to look presentable.

And it involves returning to Michael’s house.

It does not involve drama like last night, but as I walk in the middle of the street, practicing not to limp, my stomach is twisted in worry. She isn’t going to recognize me. I hope.

I feel like I am walking straight to my doom right now. The morning after being robbed, I show up at the Hawkes’ residence, without being in the neighborhood for a month. How suspicious could that look? I try to calm myself down. There’s no way she can incriminate me. She won’t have DNA evidence or anything. I’m fine.

I ring the doorbell instead of break in this time. I almost gasp out loud when Mrs. Hawke opens the door.

She is nothing like the intimidating, confident woman I knew as Michael’s mother. She is a ghost of herself, a shadow, a shell of what she used to be. Her shoulders are bent, loosely draped in a nightgown. The cleavage is low enough that at first I think to avert my eyes from her form, but I decide otherwise. Her hair is tangled in curlers, dyed a rich red, with a white-tinged scalp. Bags weigh down her eyes. Her eyebrows are curved in confusion, not anger, which is something I don’t expect. Slippers hastily cover her feet. It is apparent she has just woken up.

I am even more shocked to realize she looks familiar in the fact that she has become me. Eaten alive by immeasurable grief. Hollowed out until there is nothing of note left.

“Hello,” I begin. The simplest of greetings is what I wield now.

“Hello,” she repeats emptily, as if she has never heard the word before. Her gaze drifts away from me, over my shoulder. Out into the world. The sunlight is bright behind me. A world of promise. That has all been stolen from her because of our tragedy. She leans against the doorframe, clutching onto the doorknob so tightly her already pale hands turn snow white. She has no strength left.

“I’m…I’m sorry for your loss,” I murmur. Her eyes fix on mine, as if this is the only thing she has really heard me say just now.

Then they turn hard with hatred and malice.

“ _You’re_ sorry,” she sneers. “As if you cared. As if it isn’t your fault he’s gone.”

I stumble backward. I have been verbally slapped. I blink and open my mouth to speak.

“There’s no explanation needed,” she growls. “Don’t tell me you loved him. Don’t tell me you came here just to say you were _sorry_. I’ve lost my _son_. My precious baby. Because of you.” She stops and clears her throat of the apparent onslaught of tears threatening to take her over. “Our only son. Our Michael. Not yours. I always knew you were the Devil in disguise, in a tidy, pretty little package. I warned him to stay away from you. He didn’t listen. This is where it’s gotten him. Where it’s gotten _us_.”

I would be so much more hurt if I didn’t understand. But I do. She needs someone to blame, something to hate for this to happen to her. I needed such as well. She’s picked me, and with good reason. “I should go,” I say.

“You should,” she replies, and curls her fingers around the door, ready to slam it in my face, but she pauses. “And don’t bother coming to the funeral.”

_Slam!_

What else did I expect by coming here? Why did I even come here in the first place? I don’t know. I’m such a fool. I might have even confessed to my midnight sin, seeing Mrs. Hawke so broken.

I walk home dejectedly. I won’t be able to see Michael get laid to rest. The very last time I saw him, he hated me. He yelled at me, his face screwed in anger. This is what I expect. It really is all my fault. Everything is.

At one o’clock in the afternoon I call Steve to pick me up. I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

All the possessions I want to take to my new Illinois home fits two suitcases. I include Michael’s possessions with this total. I wear his backpack, putting the rest of his stuff in it.

I’m not returning back in my house, ever again. This is the last time I’ll ever set foot in the only home I can remember living in.

I see Steve’s Jeep pull up from the window, so on purpose I take a long while to get out of my house. For the last time, I touch this doorknob, caress this picture, smell this flower. Glance back at that magical piano.

And finally, I walk out, forever.

Steve waits outside for me. His face is soft with an expression mimicking pity. A rock grows in my throat and fills my heart with pain. I climb in the car, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, not starting the car yet. I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“No,” I whisper, guilt racking me, “I needed to do it.” I think I’m convincing myself more than Steve at this point.

“Look.” He wraps an arm around me, and I lean into his shoulder. “I hope everything will fall together soon. I want you to find closure. You are so, so strong.”

Against my will, ever-present, oh-so-persistent tears leak out of my eyes, crawl down my cheeks, and stain his nice dress shirt. “Thank you,” I breathe.

“You need more than you get,” he says. For a few seconds, I just cry silently, until Steve just pulls me away from him gently, handing me a tissue.

And he starts driving, away from the home I thought would be mine forever.


	9. The End!

You've done it - you've reached the end of my labor of love!

Thank you so, so, SO much for sticking with me through all of this. It is hard to believe how long it's been since I wrote this and I'm only getting it up here now, but I don't really care anymore. Hopefully it will be read anyway.

Thank you again for getting this far. Feedback on this story, as well as whether or not you consider it worthy of being completed within a sequel or series, would be very much appreciated!

I love you all, and stay safe. <3


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